“We could …” he began enthusiastically.
She held up a hand and glowered at him. “Please! This is a hospital!”
“Just a thought.” He sighed. “I bring my own coffee now when I visit Jon at his office, though.”
At the sound of her boss’s name, she relaxed a little. “I’m glad he’ll be all right.” She hesitated. “I guess I should get going.”
“You can see him first.”
She was uncertain. “You and Winnie should go in.”
“Winnie will say that you should,” he said with a gentle smile.
“Thanks,” she murmured huskily and wouldn’t look up.
Kilraven didn’t say what he was thinking. Joceline and Jon had been antagonistic toward each other for a long time. But there was one night when they’d actually gone to a party together, about four years ago. The Bureau had been providing protection for a young woman who was dating a foreign dignitary’s son, and avoided a kidnapping. She’d insisted that Jon, the agent in charge of the case, come to her birthday party and bring a date. So Jon had made Joceline go with him. He hated parties. He hated socializing. So did Joceline. But she went.
Funny, Joceline had acted oddly afterward and tried to quit her job. Jon had talked her into staying. He hadn’t said much about the incident, just that he’d had way too much to drink and Joceline had been forced to drive him to the hospital. It turned out that someone had spiked Jon’s drink with a hallucinogenic drug, trying to be funny. The culprit, a foreign dignitary’s son, had fled the country shortly thereafter and never returned.
He hadn’t thought about that for a long time. His brother never drank as a rule. He was very straitlaced. Today, it had hurt terribly to see Jon lying on a gurney with blood seeping from the wound on his back. He loved his brother. Cammy was going to go ballistic. She’d lived in fear of this all during Jon’s career in law enforcement. She kept rosaries everywhere, even in the glove compartment of her car, and she prayed constantly for his safety. At least she wasn’t driving herself to the hospital or there might be two tragedies. Kilraven would have gone to get her, but he’d been afraid to leave Jon—as if by his own physical presence he could keep Jon alive.
The nurse beckoned to them a nerve-racking few minutes later. Neither Kilraven nor Joceline really believed that Jon wasn’t going to die. They had to see him for themselves, to be sure.
He was in a hospital gown, but his chest was bare. He was white as a sheet. There was dried blood on his firm, chiseled mouth. He was laboring to breathe, even with the tube that ran out of his chest to drain off the fluid. There was a drip feeding from a tube on a pole into his arm. There were oxygen tubes in his nostrils and he was hooked up to half a dozen monitors. His long, jet-black hair was tangled on the pillow. His eyes were closed.
Besides the beep of the monitors and the electronic sounds, there was only the sudden jerk of Joceline’s breath, almost a sob, which she quickly smothered.
“He’d hate having his hair tangled,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
He glanced at her, noting that she didn’t have much more color in her face than Jon did in his. She was gripping her purse as if she feared it might escape.
“He’s one tough customer,” Kilraven told her comfortingly. “And I do know something about gunshot wounds. I’m sure he’s in a lot of pain, and it will take time for him to recover. But he’s going to live, Joceline.”
She swallowed her fear and nodded slowly. “Yes,” she agreed.
“Tomorrow he’ll be telling the nurses how to do the drip and threatening the doctor to try to get out of the hospital.”
She nodded again. It was so painful to see him like that. He was such a strong, vital man …
Kilraven was watching her covertly. It surprised him to see her at a loss for words, to see her so frightened. Perhaps she was thinking about the shadowy man in her life who went missing overseas. Markie’s father.
Markie. He felt a sudden sinking worry. “Going to step out for just a sec,” he told her, and moved out of the ICU unit to make a quick phone call.
Joceline barely noticed. Her hand went out to smooth the thick, long, tangled black hair on the pillow. She recalled another time when she’d touched it, felt its cool silkiness, clung to it as feelings rose so high that she thought she might die of them. He didn’t remember. It was a good thing. She didn’t want him to remember.
“Don’t touch my son!”
She froze, jerking her hand back, as Cammy Blackhawk came into the room. She glared at the younger woman as she moved to the bed, her back to Joceline.
“Jon,” she whispered. “My poor, poor boy!”
She bent to kiss his forehead, and fought tears. She smoothed back his hair and stared at him for a long moment. Then she turned to Joceline, all cold dignity and hostility.
“You have no right to be in here,” she snapped.
Joceline didn’t argue. She looked one last time at Jon before she turned and left the cubicle.
“Where are you going?” Kilraven asked, surprised to meet her in the hall.
“I’m leaving,” Joceline said, very pale but composed. “Life goes on. Your mother is in there,” she added stiffly.
“Oh, God, now the real torment begins,” he groaned. “She’ll stand the staff on its ear and they’ll threaten to hang her from a window by a sheet!”
She laughed suddenly.
“Don’t let her worry you,” Kilraven said in a low tone. “She’s not what she seems. Honest.”
Joceline didn’t reply. “I hope he does well.”
“He will. I’ll call you myself if there’s any change.”
She nodded. “Thanks, Kilraven.”
His eyes narrowed. “Joceline, I’ve had Rourke stake out your son’s preschool.”
“What?” she exclaimed, going white.
“Monroe made threats,” he reminded her. “We can’t prove it so we can’t have him arrested. He’s being watched, that’s all I can say. But your son may be on the firing line. He has to have protection. So do you.”
It was horrifying to think that Markie might end up in a hospital bed, victim of some deranged criminal. “Surely, not! He’s just a child!”
“So was Melly,” Kilraven reminded her with a grim expression, speaking of his daughter who had been killed. “She was barely three, when—” His voice broke.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “Truly sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t bring her back, and it won’t protect your son, either,” he added. “Rourke will. So tolerate him.”
She grimaced.
“You don’t have to like him. I know he’s a pain. But he’s the best private security I know.”
“All right.”
He studied her for a moment. “You never bring your son to work. You don’t have a photo of him on your desk. But you obviously love him very much.”
“Don’t speculate,” she bit off.
