The ambulance had just turned around to go in the direction the boys were pointing, but when the gunshots were fired, it changed course. Sirens on, the ambulance crossed over the curb and swerved to miss the hospital emergency entrance sign. It bounded across the park toward the gunshot victim, weaving in and out of the crowd that was scrambling toward the boulevard.
Ellie jumped to her feet and ran after it. Her mind was racing. Who were the surgeons on call tonight? Edmonds and Walmer, she remembered, and she’d seen both of them in the hospital. Good.
The target had been a good distance away from the shooter, but he’d taken a direct hit to the torso. Ellie had no idea how bad the wound was, but she thought, if she could stabilize him, he’d make it to the OR.
The ambulance crossed the grassy area of the park in no time and stopped a few feet away from the downed man. Two paramedics leapt to the ground. Ellie recognized them: Mary Lynn Scott and Russell Probst. Russell opened the back doors and pulled out the gurney while Mary Lynn reached for the large, orange trauma bag and rushed forward, sliding to her knees beside the victim. By the time Ellie reached the scene, armed agents had surrounded him. One knelt on the ground talking to the man, trying to keep him calm, while two others stood over him.
An agent, taller than the other two and much more muscular through the shoulders, blocked her view. He barely glanced at her as he brusquely ordered, “You don’t need to see this. Go back to your soccer game.”
Go back to your game? Was he serious? Ellie was about to protest when one of the paramedics looked up, spotted her, and shouted, “Oh, thank God. Dr. Sullivan.”
All three agents looked at her skeptically and then slowly stepped aside so that she could get past. Mary Lynn tossed her a pair of gloves, and Ellie pulled them on as she knelt down beside the man to assess the injury. Blood saturated the man’s shirt. She gently lifted the compress Mary Lynn had pressed to his shoulder, saw the damage, and immediately sought to stem the bleeding. While she gave orders to Russell and Mary Lynn, she kept her voice steady. The patient was conscious, and she didn’t want him to panic.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
She made it a point never to lie to a patient. That didn’t mean she had to be brutally honest, however. “It’s bad, but I’ve seen much worse, much worse.”
Russell handed her a clamp, and she found the source of the bleeding. The bullet hadn’t gone through but had made quite an entrance.
Once Mary Lynn had gotten the IV line in, Ellie nodded to her to begin the drip.
“What’s your name?” she asked as she began packing the wound.
“Sean . . . Sean . . . ah, hell, I can’t remember my last name.” His eyelids began to flutter as he struggled to stay conscious.
The agent kneeling behind him said, “Goodman.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sean said, his voice growing weaker.
“Can you remember if you’re allergic to anything?” Mary Lynn asked.
“Just bullets.” Sean stared at Ellie through half-closed eyes. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” she said, flashing a smile. She finished packing the wound and leaned back on her heels.
“Dr. Sullivan’s a trauma surgeon,” Russell explained. “If you had to get shot, she’s the one you want operating on you. She’s the best there is.”
“Okay, he’s stable. You can take him,” Ellie said as she peeled off her gloves and dropped them in the plastic container Mary Lynn opened for her.
Sean suddenly grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “Wait . . .”
“Yes?”
“I want to marry Sara. Am I going to see her again?”
She leaned over him. “Yes, you will,” she said. “But first you’re going into the OR to get that bullet out. Now sleep. It’s all good. The surgeon will take care of you.”
“Who’s on tonight?” Russell asked.
“Edmonds and Walmer,” Mary Lynn answered.
Sean tightened his hold on Ellie’s arm. “I want you.” He didn’t give her time to respond but held tight and forced himself to stay awake as he repeated, “He said you’re the best. I want you to operate.”
She put her hand on top of his and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
She stood and stepped back to get out of the way so that the paramedics could put Sean into the ambulance but was stopped by something solid. It felt as though she’d just backed into a slab of granite. The agent who had told her to go back to her soccer game was blocking her exit with his warm, hard chest. He put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, then let go. When he still didn’t get out of her way, she stood her ground pressed against him.
“Dr. Sullivan, do you want to ride with us?” Russell called out.
“No, go ahead. He’s stable now.”
Russell swung the doors shut, jumped into the driver’s seat, and the ambulance was on its way.
Ellie turned to the agent who had been kneeling with Sean. “Was anyone else hurt?”
The granite wall behind her answered. “Not hurt, dead.” He was very matter-of-fact.
“They weren’t ours,” another agent explained. “They were wanted men.”
She turned around and came face to shoulders with the most intimidating man she’d ever seen, and that was saying something considering the monster chief of surgery she worked under. This man didn’t look anything like him, though. The agent was tall, dark, and scary, with thick black hair and penetrating, steely gray eyes. His firm square jaw was covered with at least one day’s growth of beard, maybe two. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in at least twenty-four hours, a look she knew all too well.
Ellie’s heart skipped a beat. The man could scare the quills off a porcupine. But, oh God, was he sexy! Ellie gave herself a mental slap. An intimidating man who was built like a monument and could melt iron with his menacing glare—this was what she was attracted to?
The agent who had been kneeling stepped forward and put out his hand. “I’m Agent Tom Bradley. Sean Goodman’s my partner.” He introduced her to the agent on his left and then to the man in front of her. “Agent Max Daniels.”
She nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the OR.” She didn’t wait for permission, but turned and ran back to the hospital.
Thirty minutes later she was dropping the bullet she’d retrieved from Sean’s shoulder into a small metal pan. “Bag it and get it to one of the agents waiting outside. You know the drill.”
Then the real work of repairing the damage began. Ellie had learned over the years that there was no such thing as a simple bullet wound. Bullets had a way of doing considerable damage before settling, but Agent Goodman was lucky. His bullet hadn’t penetrated any major organs or nerves.
Once she’d closed, she followed the patient to recovery, wrote orders, and went to talk to the crowd gathered in the surgical waiting room. A dozen people with worried faces sat waiting for the news. Agent Daniels was standing, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest. His gaze followed her as she entered the room, and her heart began to race. She knew she looked a mess. She pulled off her cap and threaded her fingers through her hair. Why in heaven’s name she wanted to look good for him was beyond her comprehension, and yet she did.
“The surgeon’s here,” Daniels announced.
A petite young woman jumped up and rushed forward, followed by Agent Bradley and a crowd of worried relatives.
“The surgery went well,” she began and then explained some of what she had repaired, trying not to be too technical. “I expect him to make a full recovery.”
Sara, his fiancée, was crying as she stammered her thank-you. She shook Ellie’s hand and held on to it.
“You can see him in about an hour,” Ellie told her. “He’s heavily sedated and he’s not going to know you’re there,” she warned. “He’ll be in recovery for a while, then they’ll take him to ICU. Once the nurses in ICU have him settled, they’ll send someone to get you. Any
questions?”
A frazzled-looking nurse appeared in the doorway. “Dr. Sullivan?”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind looking at Mrs. Klein for us? She’s Edmond’s patient, but he’s in surgery.”
“I’ll be right there.”
She patted Sara’s hand and pulled free. “All right then. It’s all good.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Agent Daniels smile as she turned to leave. She walked down the corridor and had just turned the corner when he caught up with her.
“Hey, Doctor.”
She turned around. Her stupid heart went into overdrive again. “Yes?”
“We’re going to need to talk to you about the shooting. You’ll have to give a statement.”
“When?”
“How about after you check on that patient?”
She couldn’t resist. “Gee, I don’t know. I hate to miss soccer practice.”
She was laughing as she pushed the doors aside and disappeared into ICU.
Max Daniels stood there staring after her, a slight grin crossing his face.
“Damn,” he whispered. “Damn.”
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
DUTTON
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Copyright © 1990 by Julie Garwood All rights reserved
eISBN : 978-1-101-53156-3
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This one’s for you, Elizabeth.
Chapter One
London, 1815
The hunter waited patiently for his prey.
It was a dangerous deception the Marquess of Cainewood was playing. The infamous Pagan of Shallow’s Wharf would certainly hear of his impersonator; he’d be forced out of hiding then, for his pride, monstrous by all whispered accounts, wouldn’t allow another to take credit for his own black deeds. The pirate would certainly try to extract his own form of revenge. Caine was counting on that possibility. Once Pagan showed himself, Caine would have him.
And then the legend would be destroyed.
The Marquess had run out of choices. The spider wouldn’t leave his web. Bounty hadn’t worked. No, there wasn’t a Judas among the seamen, which was surprising given that most ordinary men would have sold their mamas into bondage for the amount of gold he’d offered. It was a miscalculation on Caine’s part, too. Each seaman voiced loyalty to the legend as his own personal reason for refusing the coins. Caine, a cynic by nature and past sour experiences, guessed fear was the real motive. Fear and superstition.
Mystery surrounded the pirate like the wall of a confessional. No one had ever actually seen Pagan. His ship, the Emerald, had been observed countless times skimming the water like a pebble thrown by the hand of God, or so it was reported by those who’d boasted of seeing the ship. The sight of the black beauty sparked terror in the titled gentlemen of the ton with fat purses, snickers of glee from the downright mean-hearted, and prayers of humble thanksgiving from the deprived, for Pagan was known to share his booty with the less fortunate.
Yet as often as the magical ship was sighted, no one could describe a single shipmate on board the vessel. This only increased the speculation, admiration, and awe about the phantom pirate.
Pagan’s thievery extended beyond the ocean, however, for he was a man who obviously enjoyed variety. His land raids caused just as much consternation, perhaps even more. Pagan was discriminate in robbing only from the members of the ton. It was apparent the pirate didn’t want anyone else taking credit for his own midnight raids on the unsuspecting. He therefore left his own personal calling card in the form of a single long-stemmed white rose. His victim usually awakened by morning light to find the flower on the pillow beside him. The mere sight of the rose was usually quite enough to send grown men into a dead faint.
Needless to say, the poor idolized the legend. They believed Pagan was a man of style and romance. The church was no less effusive in their adoration, for the pirate left trunks of gold and jewels next to the collection plates in their vestibules, topped by a white rose, of course, so the leaders would know whose soul they were supposed to pray for. The bishop was hard put to condemn the pirate. He knew better than to saint him, though, for to do so would incur the wrath of some of the most influential members of society, and therefore settled on calling Pagan rogue instead. The nickname, it was noted, was always said with a quick grin and a slow wink.
The War Department held no such reservations. They’d set their own bounty on the pirate’s head. Caine had doubled that amount. His reason for hunting down the bastard was a personal one, and he believed the end would justify whatever foul means he employed.
It was going to be an eye for an eye. He would kill the pirate.
Ironically, the two adversaries were equally matched. The Marquess was feared by ordinary men. His work for his government had earned him his own dark legend. If the circumstances had been different, if Pagan hadn’t dared to prod Caine’s wrath, he might have continued to leave him alone. Pagan’s mortal sin changed that determination, however; changed it with a vengeance.
Night after night Caine went to the tavern called the Ne’er Do Well, situated in the heart of London’s slums. The tavern was frequented by the more seasoned dock workers. Caine always took the corner table, his broad back protected by the stone wall from sneak attack, and patiently waited for Pagan to come to him.
The Marquess moved in and out of such seedy circles with the ease befitting a man with a dark past. In this section of the city, a man’s title meant nothing. His survival was dependent upon his size, his ability to inflict pain while defending himself, and his i
ndifference to the violence and crudity surrounding him.
Caine made the tavern his home in less than one night. He was a big man, with muscular shoulders and thighs. His size alone could intimidate most would-be challengers. Caine was dark haired, bronze skinned, and had eyes the color of a dark gray sky. There’d been a time when those eyes had had the power to spark a rush of flutters in the ladies of the ton. Now, however, those same ladies recoiled from the coldness lurking there, and the flat, emotionless expression. They whispered that the Marquess of Cainewood had been turned into stone by his hatred. Caine agreed.
Once he’d decided to play the role of Pagan, his pretense hadn’t been difficult to maintain. The storytellers all agreed on the fanciful notion that Pagan was actually a titled gentleman who took to pirating as a means of keeping up with his lavish lifestyle. Caine simply used that bit of gossip to his advantage. When he first entered the tavern, he’d worn his most expensive clothing. He’d added his own personal touch by pinning a small white rose to the lapel of his dinner jacket. It was an outrageous, silently boastful addition, of course, and gained him just the right amount of notice.
Immediately, he’d had to cut a few men with his sharp knife to secure his place in their group. Caine was dressed like a gentleman, yes, but he fought without honor or dignity. The men loved him. In bare minutes, he’d earned their respect and their fear. His Herculean size and strength gained him immediate loyalty, too. One of the more fearless asked him in a stammer if the talk was true. Was he Pagan then? Caine didn’t answer that question, but his quick grin told the seaman his question had pleased him. And when he remarked to the tavernkeeper that the seaman had a very cunning mind, he forced the inevitable conclusion. By week’s end, the rumor of Pagan’s nightly visitations to the Ne’er Do Well had spread like free gin.