Digger's shoulder.
“She asked you to leave,” the newcomer said calmly.
Larry Digger tried to push the man away. “Hey, this is private. Don't you got horse d'oovers to serve or something?”
“No, but I'm thinking of sharpening my knives.”
The man tightened his grip even more, and Digger held up his hands in surrender. The minute he was released, he backed up. “Okay, I'll go. But I'm not lying. I do have proof, Miss Holmes. I have information, not just about your father, but your
birth mother
as well. Ever think of her, Miss Holmes? Bet she could actually tell you your real birthday, let alone your real name. Midtown Hotel, sweetheart. Pleasant dreams.”
The man took a quick step forward at the sarcastic tone, and Larry Digger hightailed it out of there, his stained coat flapping behind him.
Melanie's stomach heaved. She celebrated Larry Digger's departure by spewing shrimp all over the grass and the man's glossy black shoes.
“Shit!” he yelped, leaping back awkwardly. He didn't seem to know what to do.
That made two of them. Tears of rage streamed down Melanie's cheeks. Her head was throbbing, and images added to the chaos in her mind. Blue dress, blond hair, pleading eyes.
I want to go home now. Please, let me go home
.
“Are you going to be okay?” A hand draped back her hair. “Jesus, you're burning up. Let me call an ambulance.”
“No!” Melanie's fear of hospitals outweighed her fear of pain. She snapped her head up and promptly winced. “Give me …a minute.”
Her savior was not impressed. “Jesus, lady. You go walking with a seedy-looking stranger — what were you thinking?”
“Nothing, obviously.” Melanie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. The man was absolutely right, and she resented him for it. With no other choice, she finally risked opening her eyes.
It was hard to see in the dark. The gas lamp caught the man's features only in half wash, illuminating a square jaw, lean cheeks, and a nose that had been broken a few too many times. Thick dark hair, cut conservatively short. Lips pressed into a grim, unyielding line. She recognized his uniform. Great, she'd just been saved by one of her own waiters.
She closed her eyes again. Nothing like being caught at her worst by someone who could spread stories.
“Are you going to live?” the waiter asked sharply.
“Possibly. It would help if you'd lower your voice.”
He seemed contrite for a moment, then ruined the impression with his next words. “You shouldn't have let him drag you off like that. That was a stupid thing to do. Did he want money?”
“Who doesn't?” Melanie staggered to her feet, needing to move, to just …move. Unfortunately the ground shifted beneath her, the trees bobbed.
The waiter had to grab her arm. “You keep trying to stand and we're going to have to start a suicide watch for you. Vision?”
“White dots.”
“Hearing?”
“What?”
“Prescription meds, right?”
“In the house,” she murmured, and tried to take a step. Her legs collapsed. The waiter caught her. She floated limply on his arm, suddenly beyond caring.
Please, please let me go home!
No, honey. You don't want to go home. It's not safe…
The man muttered something about foolish women, then swung her up in his arms. She leaned against his shoulder. He felt solid and firm and strong. He smelled like Old Spice.
Melanie buried her face against his neck and let the world slip away.
SPECIAL AGENT DAVID Riggs was not happy. First, because he wasn't fond of rescuing damsels in distress. Second, because he was going to take a lot of heat for rescuing this particular damsel.
“We're eyes and ears only at this stage. This is a very delicate investigation. Don't fuck it up.”
Riggs was pretty sure Supervisory Agent Lairmore would consider following, intervening, and now carrying Melanie Stokes to be a fuckup. He was supposed to be shadowing her father. He was supposed to be overhearing Dr. Harper
“She asked you to leave,” the newcomer said calmly.
Larry Digger tried to push the man away. “Hey, this is private. Don't you got horse d'oovers to serve or something?”
“No, but I'm thinking of sharpening my knives.”
The man tightened his grip even more, and Digger held up his hands in surrender. The minute he was released, he backed up. “Okay, I'll go. But I'm not lying. I do have proof, Miss Holmes. I have information, not just about your father, but your
birth mother
as well. Ever think of her, Miss Holmes? Bet she could actually tell you your real birthday, let alone your real name. Midtown Hotel, sweetheart. Pleasant dreams.”
The man took a quick step forward at the sarcastic tone, and Larry Digger hightailed it out of there, his stained coat flapping behind him.
Melanie's stomach heaved. She celebrated Larry Digger's departure by spewing shrimp all over the grass and the man's glossy black shoes.
“Shit!” he yelped, leaping back awkwardly. He didn't seem to know what to do.
That made two of them. Tears of rage streamed down Melanie's cheeks. Her head was throbbing, and images added to the chaos in her mind. Blue dress, blond hair, pleading eyes.
I want to go home now. Please, let me go home
.
“Are you going to be okay?” A hand draped back her hair. “Jesus, you're burning up. Let me call an ambulance.”
“No!” Melanie's fear of hospitals outweighed her fear of pain. She snapped her head up and promptly winced. “Give me …a minute.”
Her savior was not impressed. “Jesus, lady. You go walking with a seedy-looking stranger — what were you thinking?”
“Nothing, obviously.” Melanie pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. The man was absolutely right, and she resented him for it. With no other choice, she finally risked opening her eyes.
It was hard to see in the dark. The gas lamp caught the man's features only in half wash, illuminating a square jaw, lean cheeks, and a nose that had been broken a few too many times. Thick dark hair, cut conservatively short. Lips pressed into a grim, unyielding line. She recognized his uniform. Great, she'd just been saved by one of her own waiters.
She closed her eyes again. Nothing like being caught at her worst by someone who could spread stories.
“Are you going to live?” the waiter asked sharply.
“Possibly. It would help if you'd lower your voice.”
He seemed contrite for a moment, then ruined the impression with his next words. “You shouldn't have let him drag you off like that. That was a stupid thing to do. Did he want money?”
“Who doesn't?” Melanie staggered to her feet, needing to move, to just …move. Unfortunately the ground shifted beneath her, the trees bobbed.
The waiter had to grab her arm. “You keep trying to stand and we're going to have to start a suicide watch for you. Vision?”
“White dots.”
“Hearing?”
“What?”
“Prescription meds, right?”
“In the house,” she murmured, and tried to take a step. Her legs collapsed. The waiter caught her. She floated limply on his arm, suddenly beyond caring.
Please, please let me go home!
No, honey. You don't want to go home. It's not safe…
The man muttered something about foolish women, then swung her up in his arms. She leaned against his shoulder. He felt solid and firm and strong. He smelled like Old Spice.
Melanie buried her face against his neck and let the world slip away.
SPECIAL AGENT DAVID Riggs was not happy. First, because he wasn't fond of rescuing damsels in distress. Second, because he was going to take a lot of heat for rescuing this particular damsel.
“We're eyes and ears only at this stage. This is a very delicate investigation. Don't fuck it up.”
Riggs was pretty sure Supervisory Agent Lairmore would consider following, intervening, and now carrying Melanie Stokes to be a fuckup. He was supposed to be shadowing her father. He was supposed to be overhearing Dr. Harper
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