Bj James - Whispers In The Dark

The clinic had closed hours ago, the tranquility of deserted thoroughfares broken only by light steps and muted voices of the midnight shift. This handsome intruder could have been a concerned physician returning for late rounds at the end of a protracted evening out. One look into the wintry blaze of his startling green eyes was enough to warn that he was not.

The nurse in charge would have stopped him as he passed her by. Should have, but the pain in the brief glance he spared her nailed her immutably in her seat. The savagery of rage lying like a mask over his stark face made her more than grateful for the protective enclosure of her station.

As he moved beyond her bright island into the second shadowy extension of her floor, she stared after him, her mind a jumble of stunning, vivid impressions. Surely she was only imagining. But was she? Had she? Had she only imagined him? The look? The manner? The man? Could anyone truly be so uncivilized beneath an urbane veneer? His face? Did its harsh lines rival chiseled stone? Could hair be that thick, that dark? And which of a thousand clichés would describe it? Blue-black? Iridescent? Soot? Did it blaze beneath the pale light with silver fire?

Were any eyes so green? So desperate? So kind?

Kind?

“No!” Biting her lip, she struggled in a mental fugue, determined to convince herself of her mistake.

It was past midnight, she was tired. She was wrong. But even that resolve faltered as her competent fingers, hovering unsteadily over a hidden switch, curled, one by one, into her palm. Security could continue in a ceaseless and rarely changing routine, she wouldn’t be summoning them. If the breach in protocol meant her job? What was a paycheck when one faced a stalking brute looking for someone to eat?

“After all,” she muttered as she picked up her pen, pretending to go about the business of charting the nightly needs of her patients, “why put a paltry stumbling block in the path of the inevitable?”

Why, indeed, she wondered as she waited and listened.

There was but one door past her station, one suite. But Nurse Carstairs wouldn’t have needed that obvious fact to spell out the destination of this grave and formidable transgressor. From the moment he’d stepped onto her hall, she’d needed no bolt of mental lightning to divine that he’d come in answer to a summons from the laird who waited and grieved behind its closed door.

“They are as different as the sun from the moon,” she mused, putting her pen and pretense aside. Adding, without really understanding, “Yet so much the same.”

He was beyond her sight, this virile intruder into the world of exquisitely specialized medicine. But, in the quiet, she heard the ceasing of his nearly soundless step. A quick rap. The scrape of a door. Then—shattering her new-found resolve that she’d seen the prowling beast—the gentle ripple of his deep voice.

“Patrick.”

The massive Scot stumbled to his feet, not out of clumsiness or the burden of his size, but from fatigue and worry. And from more than forty-eight hours without sleep as he kept a bedside vigil. His arms were iron bands enveloping the newcomer, but it was the smaller man whose whipcord strength offered support.

“Rafe.”

“Yes.”

Rafe Courtenay had come to Phoenix and the clinic from another country, another continent, in answer to a summons from the only man in the world who commanded such loyalty from the solitary Creole. Backing out of the desperate embrace, but keeping his hand on a taut shoulder, he looked up at Patrick McCallum, his friend and chosen family for most of his life.

If she could have seen, Nurse Carstairs would have been shocked to know how astute she’d been, that she’d imagined nothing. Rafe Courtenay and Patrick McCallum were, indeed, as different as the sun from the moon. And, indeed, the same. They were men of the same ilk, cast in the same mold. Dynamic, intense, complex and passionate. But individual. Distinctive. Different.

Out of the meshing of similarity, in the complement of difference, bonds stronger than mere friendship had grown. Trust, complete, deep and abiding; honor, unflinching, unfaltering; and in all of it, love. The love of brothers, among men who had none, born in adolescence and their tenure in a most exclusive, most private academy. Enduring into manhood and the building of McCallum holdings into a corporate empire. Meshing them into the most powerful and successful consortium in the business world.

If Patrick—with fiery temperament, shrewd but impetuous judgment and monumental strength—was head and heart of McCallum International; Rafe—CEO of phenomenal intellect, razor-edged insight and whipcord resilience—was its soul. Its cool, quiet strength. Its solidarity.

Each was fire. Each was ice. In his own way.

And through the years, more times than either remembered or bothered to count, the difference in one had served the other. It would now. Looking long into the eyes of his friend, Rafe saw him as few ever saw him. The keen, searching appraisal proved the Scot was on the edge, taxing even his Goliath-like strength, but contending, as only he could, with the threat to his family.

A moment of silent communication and a bare nod reaffirmed a commitment, the joining of forces. From this moment, in his fight for the life of his wife and his child, Patrick was not alone.

Together they moved to the bed, to the still, white figure of the woman who lay like a sleeping princess waiting for her prince. “How is she?” Rafe asked, his heart heavy with worry for the only woman he’d ever trusted. The woman he could have loved, had Patrick not loved her first. “Has there been any change?”

Taking a bruised and scratched hand in his, Patrick laced his fingers through Jordana’s. “Beyond the trauma to her head, tests have shown she’s in no immediate danger from internal or external injuries, and no bones are broken. More than that assurance, nothing’s changed.”

“Any sign that she’s coming out of the coma?”

“None.” Even as he delivered the grim reply, Patrick squeezed his wife’s hand hoping for a response that never came. “Shortly after she was airlifted to the hospital in a semiconscious state, she became agitated. When I arrived she calmed and lapsed into this deep sleep. Her doctors interpret the shift in her behavior as an indication that, even with the bruising and swelling in her brain, she knew I was with her. We don’t know how much more she hears and understands, or what she remembers of the accident.”

The oblique and unneeded warning did not go unperceived. Rafe wouldn’t openly discuss or question the events surrounding the present situation in any case. Nor did he need to be told that the longer the coma continued, the deeper she sank into it, the poorer Jordana’s chances of recovery.

Touching Patrick’s shoulder again, in an undertone, he said, “We need to talk.”

“Yes.” Releasing Jordana, Patrick bent to kiss her forehead. “I need to speak with Rafe for a bit in private, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I won’t be long, I promise.”

As the two men stepped into the corridor, a nurse, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, slipped quietly into the room to take up the vigil. When Patrick was satisfied that all was well, he led Rafe to a small lounge hidden away in an alcove across from the door that led to Jordana’s suite.

“All right,” Rafe said as he set a cup of steaming coffee before Patrick and took a seat by him at the small table. “Tell me what happened.”

Patrick’s head reared back, his hollow eyes were wild and fierce, and more frightened than they’d ever been. “Jordana’s been hurt, so terribly hurt, Rafe. And our daughter’s been taken. I promised to take care of them and I didn’t!”

“You have. You did.”

“No! Somewhere, somehow, I did something wrong.”

“You did nothing wrong, Patrick. Loving them more and protecting them better than anyone in the world could have isn’t wrong.”

“Except, this time, I failed them.” Patrick’s heavy shoulders slumped. “What if...” His eyes closed against the unthinkable. “Dear God! What would I do without them?”

“Nothing! You would do nothing without them. What you’re thinking isn’t going to occur.”

“Rafe...”

“Tell me what happened, Patrick,” Rafe insisted with a calming air of command. “Start from the beginning, don’t leave out a single detail.”

Patrick gripped the cup as if it were a lifeline, but didn’t raise it to his lips. “There’s not a lot to tell, that’s the damnable part in this.”

“Then tell what there is to tell. Begin with where and how.”

Rafe would not give up, and, Patrick realized, would not let him give up. Drawing a long shuddering breath, he nodded. And, beneath the burden of his grief, shone the first glimmer of the return of the invincible Scot. “Jordana was taking Courtney to her morning dance class. A sort of motherdaughter day for them.”

“Who was driving?”

“Ian, of course.”

“Of course,” Rafe expected that it would be Ian. It would have been unlikely anyone but the wizened Highlander, who had driven for the McCallums for years, would be entrusted to chauffeur Patrick’s blind wife and his only daughter. His precious treasures.

“Was he injured?”

“He was dazed by the impact, and he’ll be a little sore for a while, but nothing more.”

“What did he see?” Intent, intense, Rafe leaned forward. “What can he tell us?”

“There was very little time to see anything. He was just turning onto the highway from the ranch when they were broadsided by a car hidden and waiting in a service road.”

“Jordana’s side taking the brunt of the impact,” Rafe ventured the obvious.

As if he didn’t hear, Patrick’s voice droned on, relating the little he knew. “Three things happened almost consecutively. Ian unlocked the doors of the car and dashed to the back passenger’s side, to Jordana. A passenger in the other vehicle bailed out and ran, leaving the driver who had not survived. While Ian was at the opposite side, a third accomplice ran from the underbrush. He grabbed Courtney from the back seat, shoved her into yet another hidden vehicle, and sped away. Presumably, with the one who escaped the crash and any one else who was involved.”

“Son of a bitch!” Grave and troubled, Rafe’s voice was strained. As he thought of his namesake, how tiny she was at four years, how frightened she would be, his look was laced with venom. “When did the ransom note arrive? How?”

“It didn’t arrive, Rafe. It was left on the seat where Courtney sat.”

“Planned down to the last hellish detail, with nothing left to chance.” There was fire blazing in the normally cool Creole as he asked, bitterly, “How much?”

Patrick lifted a stricken gaze. “Not a penny.”

Cold dread, gathering like a sickness in him, marked the harsh quirk of Rafe’s lips. “Then what? And, damn their souls, why? Who are they? What do they want?”

“Why and what they want was outlined in excruciating detail in the note. Courtney was taken by members of a radical group that calls itself Apostles for a Better Day. She was chosen because of my friendship with Jim Brigman, and what they perceive as my prominence and political influence because he’s governor.” The Scot’s face grew grimmer, paler, in startling contrast to the dark auburn of the curling, shaggy mane that framed it. “In exchange for my daughter they’ve demanded that, by that influence, I arrange and expedite the release of their leader from death row.”

“Death row!” Shock upon shock levied its toll on an unprepared Rafe. “They must be out of their collective minds. Who is this man? What the hell is he?”