hope and it was being snatched away from him. He’d be damned if he’d let that happen. “I’m not going to give her the third degree. To use one of your favorite phrases, that would be nonproductive. I do have a certain amount of tact.”
“When you want to use it.” Wilson shrugged. “But you’ll do what you want to do. Okay, I’ll deal with the nurses first and then go see what else I can find out about the explosion.”
Which probably wouldn’t be much, Kelby thought. According to the news broadcast they had heard on the way here, the explosion had virtually ripped the ship apart. He’d gone first to the disaster site, and there had been practically nothing to salvage. At the moment they were calling it an accident. Not likely. There had been two explosions at opposite ends of the ship.
Twenty-one.
He opened the door and went into the room. A woman lay in the single bed dominating the pleasant, serene room. No nurses, thank God. Wilson was good, but he needed time to pave the way. He grabbed a chair from beside the door and carried it over to the bed. She didn’t stir as he sat down and began studying her.
Melis Nemid’s head was bandaged, but he could see strands of blond hair clinging to her cheeks. Jesus, she was . . . exceptional. Her body was small, fine-boned, and she appeared as fragile as a Christmas ornament. It was incredibly moving to see someone that delicate hurt. It reminded him of Trina and those times when—
My God, he hadn’t run across anyone in years who had brought that period of his life rushing back to him like this.
So smother it. Turn it around. Transform it into something else.
He stared down at Melis Nemid with cool objectivity. Yes, she was fragile and helpless-looking. Yet, if you considered the other side of the coin, that very delicateness was oddly sensual and arousing. Like holding a gossamer-thin china cup and knowing you could break it if you only tightened your hand. His gaze shifted to her face. Beautiful bone structure. A large, perfectly formed mouth that somehow increased the appearance of sensuality. A damn beautiful woman.
And this was supposed to be Lontana’s foster daughter? Lontana was in his sixties and this woman was maybe mid-twenties. Of course, it was possible. But it was just as likely that the designation was a way of avoiding questions about a May-December relationship.
It didn’t make any difference what she had been to him. The only important thing was that the relationship was long-standing and intimate enough that the woman would be able to tell him what he needed to know. If she did know, then there was no question he would make very sure she told him.
He leaned back in his chair and waited for her to wake.
Jesus, her head hurt.
Drugs? No, they’d stopped giving her drugs when she’d stopped fighting. She cautiously opened her eyes. No lacy fretwork, she realized with relief. Cool blue walls, cool as the sea. Crisp white sheet covering her. A hospital?
“You must be thirsty. Would you like some water?”
A man’s voice. It could be a doctor or nurse. . . . Her gaze flew to the man sitting in the chair next to the bed.
“Easy, I’m not offering you poison.” He smiled. “Only a glass of water.”
He wasn’t a doctor. He was wearing jeans and a linen shirt with cuffs rolled to the elbow, and he was somehow . . . familiar. “Where am I?”
“St. Catherine’s Hospital.” He held the glass to her lips as she drank. She gazed warily at him over the rim. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, somewhere in his thirties, and wore confidence with the same casualness as he did his clothes. If she had met him before, she would definitely have remembered him.
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
The ship splintering, hurling chunks of deck and metal into the air.
“Phil!” She jerked upright in bed. Phil had been in that inferno. Phil had been— She tried to swing her legs to the floor. “He was there. I have to—