Working Stiff

She swallowed and lied, like a good soldier. “It’s fine.”

“You really need to look up the definition of that word. Hang on.”

He put a hand on her nose, and pulled. A glassy, hot snap of pain bolted through her head, drawing another cry, and she felt her muscles tense and her back arch. McCallister grabbed her hand and held it as she squeezed. She gasped out, “What—”

“I had to reset your nose so that the nanites could heal it,” he said. “You’ll feel some pain when the bones start healing in your cheek, too. Hold on. I’ll be back.” He disappeared for what seemed like an hour, and returned with a glass of warm water and a thin washcloth, which he wetted and used to wipe the blood from her face in slow, soothing strokes. Her nose was still bleeding, and the rose red blooms spread across the washcloth, but she felt it trickle to a stop.

The pain built up along her cheekbone, like an unanes-thetized root canal boring through bone. She grabbed for his hand again and held on, trembling, as the wave kept rising. It filled her head until she thought it would burst, and then there was that same glassy pop of bone shifting, and the pain began to recede. It left her weak and sick.

“Breathe,” McCallister said. “The worst is over. Soft-tissue damage doesn’t hurt as much as it heals.”

“Says you,” she whispered. Her whole midsection felt as if a truck were running over it, crushing and ripping things apart. But he was right; it faded fast. In five minutes, she was breathing easier, and the blood that had been choking her was just a nasty memory.

McCallister took the reddened washcloth back into the bathroom, and Bryn finally felt good enough to try to sit up a little. It was a mixed success. Mr. French watched her with unwavering attention, and if a dog could frown, he was definitely trying out the expression. She couldn’t decide whether he was concerned or annoyed with her initiative.

McCallister, as it turned out, had the identical expression when he came back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sitting up.” Sort of.

“Don’t. Let the nanites do their job. You’re at least an hour away from the next shot, and the more you move around, the less effective they’ll be as they try to maintain additional activity. Understand?”

She did, but she’d finally gotten the thin motel pillow tucked where she wanted it, and it was more effort to lie flat again. “I‘m—”

“If you say you’re fine again, I swear to God, Bryn, I will drive you back to Pharmadene and dump you on the doorstep as a lost cause.” He didn’t mean it. At least, she didn’t think he meant it. “Stay still. Do not open this door for anyone. Understand?”

“Sure,” she said, and finally realized, as he grabbed the doorknob, that he was leaving her. “Where are you going?”

McCallister flashed her one of those rare, unguarded smiles. “I’m going to get your gun back,” he said. “After all, I’m responsible for it.”

She settled back, staring, as the lock clicked shut, then looked at Mr. French. He settled down across her legs, as if he intended to single-handedly hold her down. “How about you, dogface? You okay?”

He licked his chops and put his head down.

She rubbed his fur with trembling fingers, and knew just how he felt.

Chapter 8

Bryn didn’t intend to drift off, but she woke to the sharp jab of a needle in her arm. Panic set in. For a second she thought she was back in that place again, that awful moment of screaming back to life. She jerked, but he was fast, and the needle was out of her skin in the next second, and McCallister’s hand was on her chest, holding her still. “You’re safe,” he said. “Booster shot. How are you feeling?”

She felt … well, weirdly enough, she felt good. Rested. Revived, if that wasn’t too sick a word to select. “Okay,” she said. “Better.”

“No pain?”

“No.” He took his hand away. Bryn sat up fully, expecting to feel a twinge from her abused abdomen, but the muscles contracted normally, as if she’d never been hurt. She put her hands to her face and felt carefully, but it was just smooth skin, and no bumps or complaining sore spots. Even her nose was straight. “Wow. That’s—”

“Amazing,” he agreed. “You have blood in your hair. You’ll probably want to shower.”

McCallister, she realized, also looked like he could use a rinse, and maybe a long, hot soak…. There was a livid red mark on his left cheek that was going to turn into a dirty bruise before too long, and his hands were bloody at the knuckles. His tie was crooked, his jacket torn at the shoulder and streaked with mud. His pants were filthy, too.

“What happened to you?”

For answer, he reached over and picked up a gun from the bedside table, showed it to her, and put it down again. “I got it back for you.”

Ouch. “It doesn’t look like he gave it up without a fight.”

He shrugged. “No significant damage.” His lips stretched into a grim smile. “To me, anyway. I’m not as concerned about his welfare.” The smile faded. “I’m sorry I wasn’t backing you up.”

“You’re not my bodyguard, McCallister. I’m supposed to be your asset, remember? Not the other way around.”

“I don’t like my assets being damaged without any real benefit.”

“Charming.” She didn’t believe it for a moment, though; she was starting to figure out McCallister, and she thought the man who’d carried her inside and tended to her was more real than the corporate persona. “So, your alibi for Irene Harte is that we’ve sneaked away to a seedy motel for some private busy time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how stupid that is?”

He smiled again, this time a little more warmly. “You underestimate yourself. Or possibly me. No one at corporate will doubt it.”

“Let me guess. You have a reputation.”

“I’ve taken pains to build it. It gives me the ability to duck out of surveillance without too much notice being taken. You do enough legitimate philandering and no one questions you when you drop off the radar for a few hours with a girl.”

“Wow,” Bryn said. “You really are a man whore.”

“I prefer the term player.”

She had no response for that. For some reason, she could well imagine McCallister being familiar with these kinds of seedy roadside establishments, although she thought he probably preferred nicer accommodations. Which made her wonder … “Why here?”

“It has no wireless Internet or any other modern conveniences that make it easy to conduct off-site surveillance,” he said. “It takes time for them to get organized and send real bodies out. Even the security camera in the office is state-of-the-art circa 1980, and I think it’s just for show. If we’d checked in at a more upscale establishment, they’d have a much easier time keeping track of us.”

Of course he had a reason. McCallister didn’t do anything without a reason, and maybe two or three of them. “I really ought to be at work,” she said. “Not that this hasn’t been fun.”

He checked his watch and said, “No hurry, it’s already four o’clock, and by the time we drive back, it’ll be well after closing time at the mortuary. Joe’s been briefed. He’ll cover for you. One thing about the dead—they’ll wait.”

His cell phone chose that moment to buzz like an angry hornet, and McCallister paused, checked the screen, and turned it off. “Harte,” he said.

“You’re not answering?”

“Would I be answering if we were doing what they think we’re doing?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

He raised his eyebrows, smiled, and said, “Maybe.” He switched the phone back on and hit a button on the TV remote at the same time. A porn channel popped up. Why am I not surprised? Bryn thought, and reached to change the channel. He shook his head and stopped her. Instead, he turned up the volume for the pants and moans. “McCallister,” he said into the phone, sounding annoyed and distracted. “This had better be important.” He listened for a second, then subtly altered his tone. “Ms. Harte. Sorry. I didn’t check the screen.” Now he turned the volume down. “Yes. Yes, I know.” Another longer pause. “I’ll alert my team to handle it. I’m not close to the office now.” He locked eyes with Bryn, and mouthed, Say something.

What? she mouthed back. He shrugged.

Well, might as well have fun with it. She pitched her voice to a low, sexy range and said, “Patrick, this is no time to be on the phone.”

He shushed her—loud enough for Irene Harte to hear it—and gave her a thumbs-up.

Bryn reached over, took his tie, and unknotted it. The rustle of fabric would sound good, she thought.

McCallister froze, staring at her, momentarily distracted from his conversation. He reengaged with a physical jolt. “Ah, yes. Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be in later. Eight o’clock.”

This was kind of fun. Bryn unfastened his collar, then slipped the second button loose. She was enjoying the rising confusion in his eyes. Thank God she actually had the upper hand in this very weird relationship, for once. Stop, he mouthed. She grinned and went for the next button.

He grabbed her hand in his, tightly, and pulled her closer—so close she could almost make out what his boss was saying on the phone. She froze, and he didn’t move again either, until he said, “All right. See you then,” and hung up the call.

He didn’t release his hold. “What the hell were you doing?”

“I was selling your alibi,” she said. “Let go.”

“That,” he said, “was not at all necessary, Bryn. I thought we agreed not to complicate things.”

“You were trying to make her think we’re having a mad affair. I was just helping.”

“Helping,” he repeated. “Bryn—trust me, you are not helping.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">