Undercover Avenger

She didn’t blame him. She hated her own weaknesses.

“Not bad for an old guy,” Nancy murmured.

Melissa winced. He was only thirty-four. His name, Eric Collier. His chart revealed he was over six feet tall, weighed two hundred pounds. He didn’t have to stand up for her to see that his body was muscular. His face was nice looking, too, a broad jaw, angular with a firm nose and deep-set dark eyes.

“What’s his story?” Nancy asked.

Melissa explained his injuries. “He also suffered burns over twenty-five percent of his body, he’s had some skin grafts, waiting for more.”

Nancy shivered. “What happened?”

“Some kind of car accident. Apparently there was a gas leak and his car exploded.”

Nancy backed away, stricken. “Poor man. He was probably even better-looking before.”

He’s gorgeous anyway, Melissa wanted to say, but she didn’t. She had to remain professional. She never got involved with patients. And she wouldn’t make an exception here.

But the injuries and scars didn’t faze her as they did the young girl beside her. The courage the patients possessed did—everyone she worked with had a story. Dreams lost, shattered bodies and bruised self-esteem. Some gave in to pity, others fought hard not to succumb to the depression. To regain those dreams and their lives. With every failure and setback, she felt their frustration. With every success, their joy. And for those who tried to give up, she rallied harder to encourage them to fight back.

This one looked like a fighter.

The wheelchair rolled to a stop, the man’s hard gaze pinning her as he looked up into her eyes. His were a muddy brown, almost black. Angry. Full of pride. Challenge. Pain.

“Eric Cal… Collier,” he said. “I’m here for my session.”

She extended her hand, ignoring the fact that he was as handsome as sin. Anger radiated from his every pore in palpable waves, an attitude of aloofness surrounding him that would have been off-putting had she not seen it before. This man was not only scarred on the outside but on the inside, as well. Old wounds hadn’t healed, had festered instead, maybe all the way to his soul. She understood about those kinds of wounds too. She’d lived with them all her life. “Melissa Fagan.”

His mouth twitched as if he was trying for a smile but couldn’t force his lips to form one. She smiled for him instead. She’d seen tough men before and understood their difficulty in accepting help, as well as their own imperfections.

Especially when they had to depend on a woman.

Male pride and all that. This guy possessed it in spades.

“We’ll start over here, Mr. Collier.” She directed him to a desk in the corner for their first consultation. As soon as she sat, he relaxed slightly, although for a fleeting second his gaze skittered over her in an almost appreciative way, as if he’d noticed her as a man notices a woman. Good, some part of him wasn’t dead.

She’d wondered at first.

As a therapist, in the past, a few patients had been attracted to her. At first. But once they started the sessions, they usually wound up hating her. Hating her for pushing them. For punishing their bodies. For reminding them she could walk without help and they couldn’t.

She didn’t let their attitudes affect her, either. In the end, when they stood and walked out on their own two feet, free of their crutches, tolerating their temper outbursts was worth it.

Thankfully, putting herself more on his level helped dissipate some of his tension. She’d seen that reaction before, too. Men despised women towering over them. Control issues.

“Well,” she said, inflecting a cheerfulness in her voice she used with her patients. “It looks like we have our work cut out for us, Mr. Collier.” She reviewed his injuries and described the strategy for getting him back in shape, outlining basic exercise routines to be performed at the center and at home. “Remember, it takes time to regain your strength. You have to be patient.”

His curt nod warned her not to count on it.

She gestured toward the workout area. “Are you ready to get out of that chair, Eric?”

He seemed momentarily startled she’d used his first name, but he dismissed it quickly, then nodded, somber but determined.

“Good, but remember, you’ll have to take it one step at a time, one day at a time.” She smiled, hoping to temper her comment. “If you overdo, you can damage yourself further and cause a setback, so remember when I tell you to stop, it’s for a reason.”

“Right.” His sarcastic reply wasn’t lost on her. She’d have to stay on top of him or he’d ignore caution.

She pointed to the locker room and watched him wheel toward it, his broad shoulders stiff, his head held high. She hoped he would maintain the attitude.

He would need it to survive the long grueling sessions ahead of him.

ERIC STEELED HIMSELF against the instant attraction he felt for Melissa Fagan while he changed into workout shorts and a T-shirt. He should have worn them to the session, but pride had made him stall in revealing his scars. Especially when he’d heard his therapist was going to be female.

Disgust filled him for even momentarily noticing her beauty. This woman had read his chart. She knew the extent of his injuries. She would have to help him stand, help him learn to walk again.

She would have to touch his ugly marred flesh.

He could not think of her as a woman.

Still, he sucked in a sharp breath at the thought of exposing himself to her, though after all he’d endured in the hospital the last three months, he should be accustomed to it. The baths, the skin grafts, the constant poking and prodding. But somehow revealing his wounds to Melissa made him feel even more naked and raw.

Focus on the job. On catching Hughes.

His resolve set, he wheeled through the doors to the locker room, but the young blond candy striper winced as her gaze landed on his scarred thigh. He gritted his teeth and rolled past her, stopping directly in front of Melissa Fagan, daring her to do the same. She didn’t. She simply offered him a smile and gestured for him to follow as if his injuries didn’t faze her.

He gave her credit for not flinching, when he had almost gagged the first time the doctor had removed the bandages and he’d seen the mounds of discolored, purplish-red mangled flesh that had once been his solid, slick muscular thighs and arms and chest.

Of course, she was simply doing a job. Maybe she’d become immune to reacting to patients the way he’d forced himself to be impersonal when he dealt with victims. God knows, he’d seen some horrors in the past few years.

He remembered the courage the brutalized women he’d helped had shown as he gritted his teeth and endured the painful stretching and warm-up exercises she instructed him to do. He wouldn’t complain. Wouldn’t growl at her or curse even though he desperately needed to vent.

He would suffer through torture if it would make him whole again.

Damn it, his thigh completely cramped. The shooting pain radiated all the way from his upper leg down through his calf. Nausea gripped his stomach from the impact of the muscle spasm, but he sucked in air to control it.

“That’s right, breathe in, out.” Melissa gently kneaded the muscle, slowly stretching his leg and fitting his foot against her thigh. He focused on the deep-breathing exercises to stifle the rage of temper that attacked him at his helplessness.

Her silky hair swayed around her shoulders as she leaned forward to press her fingers into his leg, rubbing and massaging with long nimble strokes that felt like heaven.

He stared at her hands. He’d never quite appreciated the power of the pleasure they could offer a man. At least, not when the act wasn’t sexual. Her fingers pressed harder as she leaned forward to continue her ministrations, and he glimpsed the perfect pale skin of her neck. But he didn’t dwell on it or allow himself to enjoy the sweet fragrance of her soap and shampoo or the way her lips were the color of sun-ripened raspberries. And when images of her long dark hair cascading across his stomach intervened, he banished them, as well.

“That’s the reason we start with those basic warm-up and stretching exercises,” she said softly. “Although cramps are inevitable, especially in the early stages of therapy.” She angled her face toward him and smiled. The light softened her already pale green eyes. “Feeling better?”

He nodded, reminding himself that her smile and the soft words she murmured in that thick, sultry voice were intended to encourage him to work harder. They were also filled with compassion that he didn’t want to need or feel.

Because feeling only meant more pain. And he had reached his limit.

THE SIGHT OF ERIC’S proud stubborn chin thrust high as he wheeled toward the locker room stirred Melissa’s admiration even more, but the sensations she’d felt when she’d massaged the cramps in his legs had her heart pounding. When she’d helped him into the whirlpool, she had watched the bubbling water ooze over his flesh and had ached to soothe the tension from his strained face, the strain caused by working so hard to camouflage his agony.

She had never reacted this way to a patient before.

Touching and massaging body parts had become rote, impersonal. Yet, her stomach had fluttered when she’d placed Eric’s foot against her leg and touched his thigh. He had struggled to contain his reaction, although she’d glimpsed the fine sheen of perspiration that had beaded his lip when her fingers had pressed against his sensitive skin.

Hating herself for allowing personal feelings to intervene during work, she justified her reaction as a product of loneliness. She’d moved to a new place. She felt isolated and wanted to connect with someone.

She had been lonely and isolated her entire life.

Dismissing the melancholy thought, she wiped the back of her neck with a gym towel and hurried toward the break room for coffee. She could not start lusting after her patients. Good grief, she would lose her job. Not that she planned to stay here long. No, as soon as she discovered her parents’ identity and location, she’d hightail it to wherever they lived.

Eric Collier’s tortured dark eyes rose to taunt her.

The sooner she left town, the better.

Deciding to forgo the coffee, she went to search for the old records. They would either be kept on microfiche or stored in the basement of the main facility, not in the rehab building, so she detoured through the breezeway that connected the rehab building to the main hospital. Confidential or not, she had to see if the hospital still had records on Candace Latone.

She checked over her shoulder as she hurried down the hallway to the restricted area, determined to keep a low profile so as not to arouse suspicion.

EVERY MUSCLE AND JOINT in Eric’s body throbbed with pain. Even his teeth hurt.

It still hadn’t kept him from noticing Melissa Fagan though, or reacting as a man would to a woman’s touch.

Damn. He tossed the towel into the dirty-clothes bin and wheeled toward the exit. Forget the shower. He’d take one when he returned to his room. Where he had privacy and strangers didn’t have to watch him drag his butt from the chair to another one to wash his battered body.

He hesitated, chastising himself for indulging in a pity party. He had noticed others suffering while they worked through their own therapy. A young boy, about twelve. What was his story? An elderly woman—did she have family? A tiny toddler with leg braces—God.

Seeing them had affected him. At least enough to jolt him out of his own depression and finish the reps Melissa had assigned him. She’d warned him not to overdo.

Hell, he’d barely been able to manage the exercises she’d asked of him.

He hated the weakness. Hated immobility. Hated that a beautiful woman like Melissa had to see his ugliness.

He’d told Cain he could do his job, but what if he couldn’t?

Fighting the uncertainty over his recovery, he thrust himself forward, pushing down the hall. Maybe he’d take a scenic tour of the hospital on the way out and study the layout. At least then he could say he’d started investigating. If anyone stopped him, he could always claim he’d gotten lost.

Play up the invalid bit.

Just as he rounded the corner near the bottom floor, he spotted Melissa. He wheeled to an abrupt stop, watching her from a distance. Breathing in her beauty and telling himself not to.

But a frown pulled at his mouth. She was checking over her shoulder as if she thought someone might be following her. He edged into the corner of the doorway behind the open doors so she wouldn’t see him. She bit down on her lip as her gaze scanned the hall. Apparently deciding it was clear, she ducked into the doors and disappeared.

He inched the chair from behind the doorway and wheeled closer. The sign on the door said Restricted.

From the nervous look on her face, she wasn’t supposed to be entering the area. So what exactly was she up to?

Chapter Two

Melissa eased down the long corridor, listening for voices or footsteps, peering at the frosted glass of the doors labeled to identify the areas. Several labs caught her attention, along with a hallway that led to another restricted area and a dark cavern of testing areas connected by steel slab doors that required special clearance and were designed with passkey codes. The entire wing felt alien and cold, the air stale. The absence of antiseptic odors or other chemical scents seemed odd in itself. Gray linoleum, light gray walls, reinforced-steel beams supported the forbidden structure. She felt as if she’d stepped into a tomb.

What exactly was going on behind those closed doors?

The sound of distant footsteps echoed from the neighboring wing, and she hesitated, planting herself in the corner as they passed. She held her breath while they crossed the opening, perspiration dotting her palms. Finally, when the footsteps faded into the distance, she veered to the right, bypassed a room marked X-rays, then spotted the file room. Wiping her damp hands on her slacks, she reached for the doorknob.

“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”

Melissa froze, possible excuses racing through her head. Taking a calming breath, she turned and forced a smile. “I’m new to the center and need to review some patient files.”

“Your name?”

A security guard faced her, clad in a gray uniform, a name tag attached to the stiff pocket of his shirt. His posture indicated he meant business, his tone implied she was in trouble.

“Melissa Fagan. I’m a physical therapist working with the rehabilitation program.”

He copied down her name, then checked it against a master list from his clipboard. His finger thumped onto the line where she must have been listed, because his gaze rose to meet hers. Still skeptical. “Do you have clearance to be in this area?”

Melissa played dumb. “Clearance?”

His puffy lips twitched in irritation. “Yes, this is a restricted area.”

Melissa glanced around, pretending innocence. “Actually, it’s only my first day here. I must have missed the sign and didn’t realize.”

“Any files you need for patients are housed in the computer system in the rehab area. Older ones are also kept in the basement of that area.”

“Oh, I see.” She offered him a watery smile. “I guess I got confused. But thanks for straightening that out. I’ve always been directionally impaired.”

His eyes narrowed as if he thought she was lying or virtually incompetent. “I’ll have to report you were in the area.”

She turned to escape, but his gruff voice added, “CIRP is very careful of its restricted areas, so don’t let it happen again, Miss Fagan. Snooping into confidential files and restricted areas could be dangerous.”

A chill skittered up her spine. Had he meant the comment as a warning or a threat?

ERIC HAD WHEELED HIS CHAIR to a corner and was studying the doors where Melissa had disappeared, wondering how difficult it would be to break CIRP’s security codes. He wished like hell he could walk so he could delve into the case rather than speculate.

The doors suddenly opened and Melissa reappeared. Her green eyes flickered with panic as she stepped into the light, and her hands were trembling. Although earlier he’d sensed steely determination in the woman when she’d pushed him through his therapy, vulnerability shadowed her pale face now.

What was she up to?

Determined not to be caught watching her, he spun the chair around and wheeled to the nearest exit. Barreling down the handicap ramp, he cursed again when the chair caught in a piece of loose gravel and jolted forward. It took him a second to dislodge the stone before he could continue. He followed the concrete path to the bungalows, grateful CIRP had designed the facility to give patients as much mobility as possible. Being robbed of his independence hacked at his self-esteem, but it would be intolerable if he had to rely on his brother to drive him back and forth to a rehab facility, or if he was confined to a hospital room like the other facilities Cain had mentioned.

Another reason CIRP had appealed to him.

That and finding Hughes and getting revenge for the death of the witness his people had killed. This afternoon he’d review the list of employees, including every scientist at CIRP and the CEO who’d replaced Hughes and start trying to pinpoint which man might be Hughes in disguise.

Fishing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door to the cabin, tossed his duffel bag inside, then rolled across the slick wood floor, his mind ticking back to Melissa Fagan. Why had she been snooping around in the restricted area? What was she looking for?

Could she possibly be an undercover detective posing as a physical therapist? If not, what other explanation could there be?

But if she was an undercover cop or agent, why hadn’t he been informed?

A testament to his lack of faith and truth—one minute he’d been attracted to her, the next he suspected her of subterfuge.

Only one way to find out. The shower beckoned, but first he grabbed his cell phone and called his contact at the FBI, Luke Devlin a forty-something workaholic with a badass attitude. Eric normally despised the slick-suited agents, but he had connected with Devlin immediately. Something dark and edgy tainted the man’s gray eyes, a haunted look Eric knew was mirrored in his own.

“Devlin here. What’s up?”

“It’s Eric. Is there another agent working at CIRP undercover?”

Devlin hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

Eric frowned. Devlin had a habit of answering a question with a question. “Would you tell me if someone else was working with you? If you guys are undermining me or working another angle, I need to know.”

“Don’t get so defensive. I simply wanted to know if you’d seen something suspicious. I assume you did or you wouldn’t be asking.”

Eric bottled his temper, and explained about Melissa Fagan’s odd behavior.

“No, she’s not one of ours. That doesn’t mean she’s not working for someone else though.”

“The locals maybe?”

“Actually, we’re coordinating with them, so no,” Devlin said, “but I’ll check her out and call you back.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on her. If she’s not a cop or agent, maybe she’s connected to Hughes’s return,” Eric suggested. “Or who knows, she might be here to steal research of some kind.”

“Right, keep an eye on her.” Devlin sighed. “Anything else to report?”

“Nothing yet. I…just had my first session today.”

“It’s going to take time to heal,” Devlin said. “Be patient.”

Eric ignored the comment. “I’ll review the data you sent and see if I can narrow down the list of suspects fitting Hughes’s profile.” Eric agreed to report in a few days, then hung up, looked down at his battered body and tried to lift his leg. It weighed a ton and refused to move as he wanted. Damn it.

Be patient.

Easy for a mobile man to say, not so easy when you couldn’t take a baby step. Instead of the shower, he dragged himself up on the bed and collapsed, unable to fight the lingering fatigue from his accident.

But even in his sleep, he couldn’t rest.

He dreamed about the explosion. The witness he’d been protecting clawed at the inside of the car, screaming for help. His eyes were glassy with pain and horror. Blood gushed down his face.

Eric lay helpless on the ground, blazing metal trapping him. His body was on fire, burning, burning, burning.

MELISSA WAS STILL A WRECK when she returned to the rehab center for her next patient session. How would she ever bypass security and locate those files when CIRP had the entire place under lock and key?

She definitely hadn’t started out well by getting caught and receiving a warning on her first day of the job.

Shaking off the anxiety that she might never find the answers she wanted, she pasted on a smile and focused on her patients. The first, a teenager who’d been in an alcohol-related accident and barely survived. Thankfully, he had been humbled by the experience. The second, a war veteran who’d lost a leg from diabetes. He’d been fitted with a prosthesis but had not handled the adjustment very well. The last was a salt-and-pepper-haired doctor in his early fifties who’d been injured in the terrorist attacks on 9/11.

When she finished charting the patient records for the day, she slipped into the employee lounge. Helen Anderson, one of the nurses she’d met when she arrived, waved her over. In her late fifties, she had a mop of curly brown hair dusted in gray. Padded with a few extra pounds, but not heavy, she mothered the other staff members.

“Sit down and put your feet up, honey. You’ve had a busy morning.”

Melissa nodded, dumped a packet of sweetener in her coffee and plopped onto the love seat across from the woman. “How long have you worked here, Helen?”

Helen popped a powdered doughnut hole into her mouth, then dabbed at the corners. “Seems like forever,” she said with a laugh. “But it’s only been thirty years.”

Since before Melissa was born. Maybe this woman did know something….

“I imagine the center’s changed a lot.”

“Changed and grown. When the hospital was first built, it was very small, everything was housed in one building. Now it’s all spread out, and the research facilities have expanded. Whew, I can’t keep up.”

“I know, I’ve read about some of the cutting-edge techniques.” Melissa had studied the layout. The psychiatric ward was actually in another building, which was attached by crosswalks, as were the rehab facility and the main hospital. Other buildings housed experimental-research centers and laboratories scattered across Catcall Island, with additional ones on the more remote Whistlestop and Nighthawk Islands.

Helen shook her head. “Hopefully, all the trouble’s passed.”

“But you’re worried?”

“You hear things, you know, about questionable projects out on Nighthawk Island. Did you know they named the island after some mysterious nighthawk who preys on people, not just other animals?”

“No, but that’s interesting.” Melissa sipped her coffee. “They conduct government experiments on the island?”

“Yes, but everything’s so danged secretive. One of the founders, Arnold Hughes, actually killed a scientist a long time ago because Hughes wanted to sell the man’s research to a higher bidder. And when this cop named Clayton Fox started nosing around last year, they replaced his memory with another man’s.” She shuddered. “And then there was that poor baby…”

Melissa chewed her lip. So the things she’d read on-line had been true.

Helen twisted her hands. “Maybe I’m getting paranoid in my old age, but I worry they’re doing chemical and biological warfare research,” she admitted, her agitation growing. “With all this talk of terrorist attacks and war, it could be awful. And what if they release chemicals or germs on the people through the water?”