Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Luke pushed open the door of the stairwell and stepped into the darkened hallway, the corridor lit only by the faint red glow of the emergency exit sign hanging overhead. He stepped up to the frosted glass door of the office to his left—her office.
For some inexplicable reason, the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, anticipation and apprehension snaking through him.
He shook his head and shoved the feeling aside.
He couldn’t put a finger on it, but something was bothering him.
Probably just the thought of Dr. Whitmore herself.
The woman grated on his nerves something fierce, and every inch of this space reminded him of her.
The health center was small, and he had spent the past two days acquainting himself with the layout, searching out each small alcove and closet that could pose a threat.
The building housed several private practices, all medical, but vastly different fields.
The bottom floor of the building belonged to a group of dermatologists, including two elderly men he was fairly certain should be taking medical advice rather than giving it.
A married couple, Dr. Scott Gerber and Dr. Audrey Stanton, occupied the second floor with their family medical practice. He had met Dr. Harbaugh on the third floor, a self-absorbed man who considered himself a god of maxillofacial surgery, as well as Dr. Sosa, a neurologist on the fourth floor.
Since Dr. Whitmore had barred him from her office during business hours, he usually roamed the lower portion of the health center and hung out with Raúl in the security office until it was time to make his final rounds.
He had walked all four floors that afternoon long after everyone had closed up shop.
This time of day was perfect, and he made his way through the building, blending inconspicuously from shadow to shadow.
Here in the quiet darkness, he could focus better, play scenarios through his mind, and search for any weaknesses in security.
The final walk-through brought him to the fifth floor where he stood now in front of her office.
Dr. Hannah Whitmore, Ph.D. was written across the frosted glass in gilded script, almost indistinguishable now in the near-dark, and he unlocked the door using the key Raúl had given him.
It swung open without a sound, granting access to her inner sanctum.
It amazed him, sometimes, that a woman so cold was in the business of helping people to sort out their emotions and address their vulnerabilities.
He hadn’t seen her all day—not that he was watching for her.
It was merely an observation. He paused in the doorway, and the memory hit him with startling clarity.
Raúl had mentioned it that morning in passing, but it hadn’t even registered.
Dr. Whitmore’s office had been closed today.
He wished he’d remembered that sooner so he could’ve gotten out of there a little earlier.
Not like it mattered anyway. The only thing on his agenda for the evening was to head back to his little fixer-upper and chill alone in front of the TV. If he was really motivated, maybe he’d do some work around the house.
He stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him as he scanned the small space.
The lobby was fairly spacious with large, comfortable couches and potted plants that made it feel more like a living room than an office.
A couple of abstract paintings hung on the walls, and a large window overlooked the city, the lights twinkling in the dark sky.
Directly opposite was a short hallway. One door on the right, two on the left. And one directly at the end of the hall. Hers. It was like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel—he didn’t want to venture closer, yet he couldn’t deny the pull.
The first door on the right led to the receptionist’s office and small kitchen area for employees only.
As far as he knew, only Dr. Whitmore and her receptionist, Fiona, worked there.
A gentle jiggle to the handle confirmed that it was locked up tight, everything safe and sound.
A restroom and a small closet graced the left side of the hallway, and he opened each door, checking to make sure the rooms were empty.
A muffled sound caught his attention, and his ears perked up.
Keeping his tread silent on the industrial-grade carpet, he slowly walked toward Dr. Whitmore’s office.
The door stood open, the room lit by the glow of the city lights spilling slim shafts of light onto the floor through the blinds over the windows.
Pausing just outside the office, he pulled his sidearm from the holster at his waist and held it low in front of him.
Craning his neck around the doorjamb, he searched the darkened corners of the room, watching for movement, listening for anything out of place.
Someone was there—he could feel it. Every instinct on alert, he stepped into the room, simultaneously pushing the door open wide with his left hand.
Gun trained, he swiveled toward the soft sound of protest as the door collided with the tiny form curled up on the floor.
Dr. Whitmore sat huddled in the shadow of the door, dozens of papers and a discarded manila file folder scattered around her feet.
Legs drawn tightly to her chest, she lifted her head to regard him.
Even in the dim light, he could see the glistening trail of tears running down her cheeks. He held her gaze for a long moment before she pillowed her forehead on her hands where they lay clasped over her knees.
Her tears filled him with a combination of fury and protectiveness.
Fury at whoever had caused them and the protective instinct to want to swoop in and make things better.
Staring down at the prickly doctor, he debated what to do.
Maybe he should just turn around and leave.
What were the odds she’d accept his offer to help anyway?
After all, she’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like him. The feeling was mutual.
But… he couldn’t just leave her like that.
After seeing her initial aloofness on the news after the murder, then being carved up by her scathing tongue at their disastrous first meeting, he hadn’t expected this from her.
Her posture spoke of helplessness and fragility, like she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. No one deserved that.
Slipping his pistol into its holster, he took a step closer and squatted next to her. “Ma’am?”
A tiny hand shot out and shoved his shoulder. “Stop that! I hate being called ma’am.”
She didn’t even bother to glance up, but he smirked nonetheless. “Just a sign of respect, ma’am.”
This time, her head jerked up, her moist eyes filled with fire as she glared at him. “We both know you’re full of crap. You don’t even like me. What do you want?”
“Just making sure you’re okay.”
She studied him, her expression unreadable. “Why?”
He raised his eyebrows at the ridiculous question. “You’re the doctor, you tell me.”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
Her voice was clipped, and it set his teeth on edge. He was half a second from wishing her luck when he forced himself to bite his tongue. He knew he was going to regret this, but… “I’m actually not a bad listener,” he said. “You know, if you want to talk about it.”
Her icy eyes stared into his, and for a second, he forgot to breathe.
A million emotions lurked in the granite depths, tugging at his soul.
He could practically see the chasm widen as her fiery facade cracked, her anger at him forgotten.
Fresh tears filled her eyes and her head drooped, her words broken as she spoke. “She’s… gone.”
Her face automatically burrowed into the crook of his neck as he scooped her into his arms and sank into the corner of the couch. He had no idea what had happened to cause this kind of reaction, but she was obviously hurting. He couldn’t leave her alone.
Threading one hand into her hair, he wrapped the other around her waist and pulled her close. It was impossible not to notice the way her body curled into his where she was settled in his lap.
Hannah’s hourglass figure was infinitely more appealing than the stick-thin women who’d routinely hung out in the bars off base in hopes of catching a Marine for the night. Her soft curves were a perfect contrast to his much harder, more muscular body.
She felt delectable, and he wanted to run his hands over her, explore the sinful body she kept hidden under those shapeless suits.
But that wasn’t what she needed right now.
Instead, he curled his arms protectively around her and pressed the gentlest of kisses to her temple.
A soft, heady fragrance wafted up to his nostrils, reminding him of vanilla frosting.
Unable to resist, he brushed his nose over her hair, breathing in the intoxicating scent.
They remained that way for several minutes until her tears slowed. He coasted one hand down her spine. “You okay, Doc?”
Her head bobbed against his throat, and a small hand extricated itself from where she’d tucked it between them, palm up. “Tissue?”
He glanced toward the small box on the corner of her desk. “Too far away. I can’t reach them without getting up.”
She leaned away from him slightly and nodded, using the pads of her fingers to dab away the stray tears clinging to her cheeks.
He lifted his shirt away from his chest. “Use my shirt, I don’t mind.”
Hannah huffed a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Really,” he said dryly, “I insist. Get mascara all over it. I won’t complain if it’s ruined.”
Confusion lit her face for a moment as her gaze met his, then dropped to his shirt. Her brows furrowed and she blinked several times. “Is that… purple?”
He snorted. “Company called it Royal Blue. Heinous, is what it is.”
“It’s just… so… ugly.” A strangled sound escaped her throat, and Hannah covered her mouth with her hands, eyes dancing with mirth.