The Secrets You Keep Page 5

  If I insist. She’s speaking to me the way a parent would talk to a stubborn child arguing about fixing his own breakfast. She’s reserved, yet feisty. An enigma. And I’m light years past intrigued.

  I take the solution and tape. “Thank you.”

  She sucks in a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “The day I walk away from a wounded man without looking back is the day I can stop calling myself a doctor.”

  She’s defending her actions before I even accuse them of being wrong. She probably walked all the way down the hall, rehearsing the conversation in her head. I almost chuckle out loud at the thought.

  She turns to leave but stops short, narrowing her eyes in confusion. “Wait. Did you say thank you?” Her mouth falls with the realization. “Oh, God. You did. You said thank you.”

  The smile I’d been fighting to keep hidden works its way to the surface. “Yes. I believe I did.”

  Her cheeks pink as embarrassed heat rises. And I like it. I like it a whole fucking lot.

  “Well… then, you’re welcome.” She points at an invisible something to her right. “I’m gonna go now. If you need me, I’m two doors down.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She swallows hard then clears her throat as if there were a double meaning in our words. At another time, there may have been. But not now. I don’t have room for distractions now. And I’m starting to worry that’s exactly what she’s going to be—a serious fucking distraction.

  ***

  “She saw me limping by the pool and gave me the guilt trip until I let her help. I thought I was alone. I didn’t think anyone was around,” Johan says, answering a question I didn’t ask.

  I ignore his explanation. “Hold still.”

  She’s gone now. I’m having a hard enough time trying not to think about her full lips or the way her skin flushes a beautiful pink without him talking about her.

  I clean his wound then bandage him up. “You’re hurt. I’ve spent the past eleven hours trapped in an empty grave. David is still missing, and these assholes are still out there wreaking havoc.” I pull the contents from the envelope and show them to Johan. “Let’s focus on the important stuff right now, okay?”

  In the photos, David is tied to a chair. His face is bloody and beaten to the point that his left eye is swollen shut. He’s holding a note that reads, “An eye for an eye. Isn’t that what the Good Book says?”

  Along with the photo, there’s a note: You’re fighting a useless battle. Go home. Next time, we’ll do more than just bloody his eye. We’ll send it to you in another envelope.

  Johan reads and re-reads the note, then takes another look at the picture. “Holy shit.”

  I take the pictures back and rip them in half. “I won’t let them send another envelope.”

  I mean every word. We came here to stop a fight, but they’ve just declared a war. Taking one of my men and torturing and maiming him is where they fucked up. This ends now.

  ***

  I left Johan sleeping in his room after we talked about a strategy. The white paneled door down the hall calls to me, a quiet whisper threatening to drown out the voices of doubt. Do the smart thing. Ignore the pull of your cock and feed your belly. The rumble in the pit of my stomach reminds me it’s been too long since I’ve eaten anything, and I’m starving.

  I walk through the indoor dining area to a veranda that faces the courtyard. It’s peaceful and quiet. It’s almost 9:00. They restaurant will close soon, so I’ll probably end up taking it to my room. I glance at the chalkboard easel display of today’s special, then my eyes are drawn to the dark-haired beauty seated at the table behind it.

  She mindlessly jabs her fork at the leaves of her salad while a single finger traces circles around the rim of a glass of water. It’s thoughtless, effortless, and innocently seductive. She’s too lost in thought to take a bite of the food she’s playing with. I prop a shoulder against the doorway, crossing one ankle over the other as I watch her. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m staring. I want her to see. I will her to look up at me. And when she does, I forget why I came here. I forget that I shouldn’t walk up to her table, pull out a chair, and sit down right in front of her. I forget the feelings I’ve held sacred for so long. And I forget that I’m trying to forget them.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Grace

  I haven’t thought about a man since the day Brent left me lying in a hospital bed and never looked back. Being alone doesn’t bother me one bit. I fix people. Because that’s a hell of a lot less painful than loving them. People walk away. Or they die. That’s what love does.

  Some might say I keep a full schedule on purpose. Whether or not that’s true, the fact remains that I don’t have time to date. I don’t even have time to think about dating. Bringing a man into my world wouldn’t be fair to either one of us.

  So, why am I letting some guy I’ve seen twice creep his way into my thoughts?

  His eyes are dark and daring, like nightfall over the ocean. I want to get lost in their seas. And his voice. When he speaks, his voice breathes life into a darkness I’ve held onto for so long. And his smile. With just one smile, he stilled the silent screams of my broken heart.

  I stick a fourth lettuce leaf onto my fork like I’m trying to win some sort of challenge. I feel his eyes on me, watching, coaxing me to look up. When I do, I find him staring, unashamed. As if eye contact were an invitation for him to join me, he walks up to my table and takes a seat. His long legs stretch out in front of him as he leans back in his chair. I wonder what it would be like to have my legs tangled in his. Good grief, Grace, stop with this already. I clear my throat and attempt to have a normal conversation.

  “How’s the patient?” God, I suck at small talk.

  “Sleeping.”

  I finally sit the fork down and stop poking at the salad I’m never going to eat. I push the plate to the side, and he snickers.

  I look up at him. “Sleep is a sign he’s pain-free. You must have done a good job.”

  “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

  He doesn’t explain, and his eyes give nothing away. I’m not sure I even want to know. I realize in this moment I know nothing about the man sitting across from me. He could be dangerous. He doesn’t feel dangerous. At least not in a way that frightens me. Not like the guys I see in the streets on my way to work, with guns in their belts and tattoos representing the tears of the dead on their cheeks.

  He holds my gaze, his dark blue eyes answering my unspoken question. Yes, Grace, this man is dangerous. I’m not too blind to see that. But he is no danger to me.

  “You should eat. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, and I want to fall asleep to the sound of his voice.

  “It’s okay. My appetite seems to be in hiding.” I shrug. “It happens sometimes. Then it comes back with a vengeance, and I’ll devour a T-bone and a pan of brownies.”

  Great, I’m rambling.

  “Not likely.”

  “Are you calling me a lightweight?”

  A playful smile tugs at his lips. “Just saying, if you’re devouring brownies, I can’t seem to find where you’re hiding them.” His eyes flicker with mischief, and the compliment about my figure brings an instant flush to my cheeks.

  “Thank you. If that was a compliment?”

  Why am I second guessing his words? I’m confident. I’ve never been not confident. Why does he make me so nervous? Do I even want it to be a compliment? The sudden throbbing between my thighs says yes. I do.

  His smile brightens. “It was. And it’s not because of Johan, I hope. That your appetite has disappeared.”

  He changed the subject. There is a God.

  A soft, breathy laugh escapes me. “No. Not because of Johan. I’ve seen worse than that on a good day.”

  He gazes at me, his eyes full of curiosity and fascination. That’s right, buddy. You’re not the only one who can be mysterious.

  “I haven’t even been here a whole day, and
I’ve already been chased by an angry man with a machete and tended to a man with a gunshot wound. I can’t wait to see how the next five days play out,” I tell him, and a glimpse of genuine interest flashes across his face.

  He folds his arms across his chest. “A machete, huh?”

  “An angry man. With a machete.”

  My response provokes another one of his radiant smiles. “Right. Well, that’s entirely different from a happy man with a machete.”

  He’s mocking me. But not in a condescending way. It’s a welcome contrast to the man I met back in that room an hour ago. I take advantage of the moment and share a piece of myself with him. These pieces I only give out in small doses. Something tells me he’s the same.

  “I guess I just thought it would be different.”

  “You thought what would be different?” he asks.

  “People.”

  The waitress finally shows up to take his order. He orders it to-go, and my heart sinks a little. I place my napkin on my still full plate, letting her know she can take it from the table.

  “People are disappointing,” he says, relishing a drink of the cold water she sat in front of him.

  “I just want to help. To make a difference.”

  “Not everyone wants to be helped.” His eyes express a sadness I haven’t seen until now, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. “So, tell me about this angry man.”

  Whatever memories were flashing through his mind, he is obviously fighting to get rid of them.

  I take a sip of my tea then clear my throat. “I was with a group of missionaries, and there was a boy with no shoes. I just wanted him to have a pair of shoes.” I can still see him, kicking the soccer ball across the hot pavement. “His father didn’t agree.”

  He doesn’t even flinch at my memory, not at all surprised by my words. Is this a daily occurrence? People getting shot and chased by madmen?

  “So, you’re a doctor and a missionary?”

  His question makes me chuckle. “No. I’m nowhere near that saintly. There’s no way I could do what those men do on a daily basis. I’m just a doctor.” He waits for me to continue. “I’m just here to serve.” His eyes flicker at my comment. “The hospital has regulations, an orientation process, so to speak. So, since I couldn’t start today, I did the next best thing.”

  “You’re working at The Gateway?”

  “How’d you know?”

  He smirks. “Intuition.”

  “I could’ve used some of that today.”

  He sits up straight and leans across the table. His eyes hold me in place, keep me from moving, from even breathing. “It never occurred to you that any of this would be dangerous? Riding through townships with people you don’t know. In a place you don’t know. And Johan. You know nothing about him. You saw a man with a gunshot wound and you followed him to his room for fuck’s sake.”

  Is he scolding me? He knows nothing about me or why I do the things I do.

  “I don’t focus on the danger. I see need. I see hope.”

  He leans back in his chair again. “That kind of vision gets people hurt.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m a doctor.” I laugh at my own joke, and for a second, I think he might, too. But the mask comes up, and the moment fades. His concern is heartwarming in its own way. This man is a stranger to me, yet somehow, I feel protected by him.

  “Things must be very different wherever you’re from.” He says the words as if they explain my lack of good judgment.

  “Not hardly. I’m from Miami. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” I reply with a smirk.

  He visibly stiffens at my answer, forcing a groan from the wicker chair beneath him. His posture relaxes when the waitress shows up with his food, stored in neatly stacked Styrofoam containers inside a brown paper bag.

  “It seems like we’ve both had a long day. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.” The change in temperature is palpable as he stands to leave.

  Did I say something wrong? He went from invading my space, sitting at my table, and making flirty comments about my body to not being able to get away from me fast enough.

  He stalls, as if he’s about to say something else but can’t find the words. “So, are you going to tell me your name? Or should I just keep calling you Miss Matthews?”

  “My name is Grace.”

  He huffs a laugh. “Of course.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing funny… or predictable… about my name. Grace was my mother’s favorite princess. My mom used to tell me if I’d dye my hair blonde, I’d look just like her.

  I sign the ticket to be added to my room tab. “You never told me yours.”

  Or should I just call you Long Legs? Maybe Daddy for short? Yeah, I don’t see either of those going over well.

  He smiles. “Callan.”

  Callan. It figures. Even his name is sexy.

  “Good night, Grace.”

  “Good night, Callan.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Grace

  I could really use a glass of wine and a good night’s sleep. My mind is racing at the speed of light, going over the day’s events and dissecting them piece by piece. From the sweet smile of Ebrahim to the little boy and his soccer ball. From the man with the machete to the open wound on Johan’s thigh. From worrying about my father to missing my mother. And dark blue eyes. Mostly dark blue eyes. I can’t get them off my mind. So, I don’t even try. I let them hypnotize me to sleep, where I spend the rest of the night dreaming of all the ways he could make me forget what I came here to escape.

  The next morning, I go over the words of the orientation booklet in my head while I wait for a cup of coffee and Ebrahim to pick me up.

  “Milk and sugar?” a deep voice cuts in from behind me.

  I turn to find Callan standing, arm extended, coffee to-go in hand, with a smile on his gorgeous face. There’s a scar, just above his top lip. And another on his cheek, hidden under the blanket of stubble. Warning signs. Caution lights. Tiny human imperfections on an otherwise flawless canvas. He’s been hurt. I want to reach out, to trace the raised flesh and ask him what happened. But I don’t. More out of respect than fear.

  “I saw you standing here and decided to run interception,” he says, nodding back at the man I ordered the coffee from.

  I thank him with a smile. “Good morning.”

  His grin widens. “It is so far.”

  My cheeks redden with heat, and his smile disappears. His mouth twitches as he narrows his eyes. I really need to learn to flirt. This is just embarrassing.

  “Both,” I reply, taking the coffee from his hand. His skin grazes mine, and the heat from his touch shoots straight to my core. He cocks his head, and I wonder if he felt it too. “Milk and sugar. I take both.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  He pulls back the plastic lid from his cup and brings it to his mouth, sipping the hot liquid slowly. I can’t stop looking at his lips, the way he wets them after taking a drink, careful not to leave a single drop behind. I admire their pink fullness and wonder what it would be like to taste them. To feel them against my own. I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee and my senses are already completely awakened. I don’t know what it is about this man, but he makes me feel things in places that have been numb for a long time. It’s not his looks, because I’ve seen plenty of handsome men. It’s not his social status, because I have no idea who he is. Maybe it’s the accent. Then why didn’t Johan affect me the same way? Or Ebrahim? No, it’s not the accent. It’s something else. Something raw. Something carnal. Something I can’t explain. I just… feel it.

  The smile returns when he catches me watching. “There’s no right or wrong. Just instinct.”

  “You rely a lot on instinct?”

  “It’s something I’m good at.”

  Why is he good at it? I want to know who he is, what he does, why he’s here. I want to know what
his instinct tells him about me. Does he feel the electricity in the air when we’re close the way I do? Does the hair stand up on the back of his neck when he hears my voice the way mine does when I hear his? How does he know Johan? Why was he shot? Are they in trouble? So many questions, but I know every one of them will go unanswered. Because he isn’t an open book. And I’m going to be late for my first day at the hospital.

  The black Mercedes pulls up before I can say anything else. “My ride’s here. I have to go.”

  “Enjoy your day. And stay away from men with machetes.”

  His comment makes me laugh. Partly because to any other person that would seem like an easy task. But for me, I’m beginning to wonder. “Stay away from stray bullets.”

  “Deal,” he says, as he watches me walk toward the door.

  ***

  My first day at the hospital was nothing like I expected it to be. I spent four hours taking temperatures and checking blood pressure. For the other two hours, I was sent to the records room to file papers. Not exactly what I had in mind when I signed up to volunteer, but I suppose every little bit counts and something is better than nothing.

  I walk past Johan’s room on the way to mine, stopping and starting, and stopping and starting, as I debate on knocking. The moment my knuckles find the courage to hit the wooden door, it opens.

  “Grace,” Callan says, his large frame nearly barreling into me.

  He must have been leaving when I finally decided to knock.

  “Hi. Sorry to interrupt. I was on my way to my room and just wanted to check on Johan.”

  He stands in the doorway, towering over me, intimidating and powerful. He doesn’t make me feel weak by any means. But he does make me feel fragile, delicate. After years of having no choice but to feel strong, I’m not sure how to process this. On one hand, I welcome the change. But on the other, I want to fight it. I don’t want to be delicate. I can’t afford to be fragile.

  “I was just leaving. You didn’t interrupt,” he tells me.

  “May I come in? Take a look?”

  I don’t even recognize my own voice. It’s meek and mild. I write it off as the climax of a day spent feeling inadequate. I’m not used to being in the shadows. At St. Anthony’s, it’s my job to be right in the thick of the madness. Saving babies. Waking up at the sound of monitor alarms going off and rushing to my father’s room. Rescuing my sister from another one of her episodes. I’d forgotten what it’s like to simply be background noise. My mind is still trying to digest it all. At least that’s what I tell myself.