Candace Irvin - In Close Quarters

“And when you told him no?”

Her gaze snapped to his.

TJ refused to dignify her surprise over his certainty with a comment.

“He left,” she replied.

Gracias a Dios. He eased out the breath he had not known he had been holding. “I still do not understand. His offer, how could this mark your record? Especially since he left once you refused.”

“Because that wasn’t the end of it.”

He set his mug down. Carefully.

She shrugged. “Maybe he was afraid I’d squeal, or maybe he just wanted to get even, I don’t know. All I do know is he stopped by Dr. Manning’s office the next morning and confessed that one of the residency applicants had invited him over for dinner, and that she’d tried to use sex to ensure her slot in the class.”

TJ sucked in his breath as he shot to his feet and strode to the windows. He stared at the string of palm trees lining the kidney-shaped pool ten stories below as he worked to control his growing fury. It was useless. His blood was no longer running cold. It was hot. Searing. And there was but one way to cool it. He would find this man who had slandered his woman and wrap his hands about the bastard’s neck until he no longer breathed. TJ locked his stare on the pool, certain that if he turned, all the undercover skills in the world would not keep her from reading the intent in his heart.

“Who?”

“I don’t understand—”

“Who did this to you?”

“Why? I doubt you know him, even if you are DEA.”

“Who?”

He heard her sigh. “His name is Doug Callahan. He’s the hospital’s—” She broke off again as he whirled about.

It mattered not. She was wrong.

He did know this man. He knew the name, anyway. As he should. In fact, he would say he knew Doug Callahan exceedingly well—considering he had spent the better part of the afternoon studying the man’s official military record. But apparently there were a few assessments missing from his officer fitness evaluations. For not only was Lt. Callahan a first-rate pharmacist, he was a first-rate bastard, as well.

But this was not all.

Doug Callahan had just become his number-one suspect.

Karin stepped out of her car, smoothed the skirt to her Navy whites and snagged her briefcase off the leather seat before slamming the door. TJ would be furious if he knew where she was and what she was about to do.

Too bad. It was her career, not his.

So what if she’d agreed to let him nose around?

Yes, as a DEA agent, he could backdoor the hospital’s records. Yes, he could check with the distributors and see if the pharmacy had been ordering an unusually high number of narcotics. He could even discover which types. If the right numbers had gone up, they’d know there was truth to the note she’d received. That it wasn’t a joke or another nasty link in Doug’s chain of petty revenge.

But it was a joke.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized it had to be. In fact, she’d lay odds Doug was rubbing his grimy paws together in anticipation right now. He’d probably slipped the note into her paperwork, hoping she’d run to Dr. Manning the moment she read it, screaming the sky was falling. Doug knew better than anyone that when they combed his pharmacy records and found nothing amiss, she’d come off worse than Chicken Little—more like a big fat sitting duck. And that’s when he’d take aim and blow her career right out of the water.

Well, she sure wasn’t handing him the gun.

Not when she could do something about it.

And she could do something.

She shifted her briefcase into her left hand and shoved the hospital door marked Staff Entrance open before marching down the corridor. Besides, TJ wasn’t being totally honest with her either. She was sure of it. She might not have concrete proof he’d held something back on her last night, but she didn’t have to. Her instincts were pretty darn good.

They were right about him.

Tijuana Jones.

God, she hated that nickname, almost as much as she hated the man’s reputation. She wasn’t stupid. She hadn’t missed the not-so-subtle allusion to Indiana Jones.

What a crock.

It wasn’t the man’s sultry looks, either. It was his personality. TJ Vásquez was no self-effacing Harrison Ford. But then, it wasn’t his personality his fellow agents had been attempting to immortalize when they’d baptized him with the moniker, now was it? And while she didn’t doubt that a number of his DEA exploits had taken on the legendary feel of an action hero’s, she had a feeling the topic those two agents she’d overheard betting on her was closer to the real reason behind the name.

Yes, the man was irresistible.

Unfortunately he also knew it—and he abused it.

She reached the end of the corridor and took the left that led to her office. Tijuana Jones her tush. His buddies should have nicknamed him Don Juan. He probably had women lined up outside his apartment, waiting their turn.

Well, she wasn’t standing in it.

Karin stopped in front of the door to her new office and grabbed the knob, but as she twisted, something made her jerk her hand back and blink. She grabbed the knob again and turned it again, opening the door a crack so she could peer inside.

She couldn’t see anything, but there it was again.

That noise.

Someone was scraping open the drawers of the desk across the room. Her desk. But all she could make out as she craned her neck around the door were broad shoulders encased in Navy whites and the back of a blond, barely regulation haircut. It was enough.

Doug.

She slammed the door open and stormed in. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

An equally loud string of curses blasted back at her when, closing the top drawer of her desk, he smashed his fingers. Then he turned. She stared up into a pair of deep-green eyes. Not blue.

And not Doug’s.

The lieutenant quirked a sheepish brow. “Looking for a pen?”

She closed her eyes, certain her humiliation had seared off the tips of her ears. But mercifully, the man was smiling sheepishly as she reopened them.

He stuck out a hand. “Dr. Hunter—Eric. And you must be Dr. Scott, my new office mate.”

She returned his easy grip. “Karin. Look, I’m sorry. I had no right to startle you like that.”

Eric shook his head as she withdrew her hand. “No apology necessary. And I swear, I don’t make a habit of going through people’s desks. I just needed a—”

“Pen—I know. And really, I am sorry. Look, I had a rough night. It’s not an excuse, I know. But I’m sorry.”

He grinned as she dumped her briefcase on the desk. A friendly open grin that didn’t churn her stomach into a mass of quivering nerves.

Thank God.

She opened the briefcase and pulled out her basic office supplies, including the ghastly silver nameplate her mother had just engraved for her.

Eric nodded. “That’s right, you just got back from the Persian Gulf, didn’t you? Having trouble sleeping without a ship rocking beneath you, eh?”

She smiled. “Among other things.”

“So what are you doing here, anyway? I thought the new class didn’t start for another two weeks.”

“We don’t. You know how it is—just wanted to get in, catch up on a few medical journals, maybe nail down a detailed layout of the hospital while I’m at it.” She pulled a pen from the inner pocket of her briefcase and held it out.

Eric took it, slipping it into the breast pocket of his whites. “Thanks—I owe you. Hey, how ’bout joining me in the cafeteria for lunch? I’d take you someplace nicer, but I’m on call today—obstetrics. I’ll give you the grand tour afterward.” He was smiling again, a charming smile, in a safe friendly kind of way.

Not like TJ’s.

God, why did she have to compare every man to him?

She was about to accept, out of spite if nothing else, when the door opened.

“Perdóneme. I will come back.”

She stiffened. “TJ?”

It couldn’t be.

She spun around.

Stunned, she stared at the uniformed janitor standing in the doorway. It was TJ, all right. She wasn’t fooled by the way he’d pulled his hair into a low ponytail and capped it with that worn blue baseball hat. Nor was she fooled by the matching blue coveralls or the cart of cleaning supplies in the hall beyond.

Then it hit her. TJ was undercover.

And she’d blown it.

Or would have if he hadn’t covered quickly. He shook his head smoothly as he strolled forward. Her mouth was still gaping open as he reached for her hand. He tugged it toward him, his dark hooded gaze smoldering into hers as he bowed over her hand and grazed her flesh with his lips. “Believe me when I say, señorita, this TJ is a lucky man to know such beauty as you. But alas, I am not he, for I would remember meeting you. José Rodríguez at your service.” His breath feathered over her hand as he kissed it again.

A shiver of warmth stole up her arm and into her stomach, sparking a fire that threatened to consume her on the spot. She couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. Hell, she couldn’t breathe. All she could do was stare into those dark bottomless eyes. Into that dark seductive soul.

TJ hadn’t dared to loose the full brunt of his charm on her since the afternoon of Jade’s wedding. It was a damn good thing, too. Because just like that, he snared her heart. Snared it, softened it and shaped it—sculpting it into something she didn’t want. Let alone want to have for him.

A cough, and suddenly the spell broke. The remaining pieces shattered as someone cleared his throat again.

Eric.

Oh, Lord, how could she have forgotten he was here?

Easy. TJ.

Dammit, he’d done it to her again, and she hated him for it. She clawed through her mind until she found the face from long ago. Her father’s face. She slapped it over TJ’s confident one. Amazing how the two could look so much alike. One might be dark and the other light. But they both used the same smooth overpowering charm to get what they wanted.

And they’d both used her.

She ripped her hand back, stabbing TJ with a glare as she shrugged. “Sorry. My mistake.” Still humiliated, she faced Eric.

Thankfully, he laughed. “Guess you weren’t kidding about not being able to sleep. You’re seeing things—or, rather, people.”

She was saved from a response when his beeper went off.

Eric tugged it off his belt and stared at the readout. “Damn. Sorry, Karin, it looks like we’ll have to take a rain check on that lunch date. My patient just shifted into hard labor, apparently without any relief from her epidural.”

“Yikes, you’d better go rethread her anesthesia line before the woman unthreads your esophagus.”

Eric chuckled. “You know it.” He nodded to TJ as he reached the door. “Hey, José, if you find any pens, leave ’em on my desk—and don’t touch the paperweight. The last guy broke my old one.”

TJ hunched his shoulders slightly as he tipped the bill of his cap. “Sí, señor.”

The second the door closed, he straightened.

“What the hell do you think—”

An iron hand clapped over her mouth, cutting off the rest of her tirade. She waited none too patiently as TJ quickly reopened the door and hauled the cleaning cart inside. He snapped the door shut and shoved the cart up against it, then flipped on the radio at the edge of Eric’s desk.

Soft rock filled the office.

She glared at his coveralls. “Nice cover, José.”

He folded his arms and shrugged.

She did her damnedest not to let her gaze linger at the rolled sleeves hugging his dusky biceps as she continued to scowl. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me what you’re doing in that outfit—and what you’re doing here?”