Chapter 14

"So, Marcus," Charles leans back in his chair at the club. It's a comfortable chair, wing-backed leather and perfectly situated right in front of the fire. Charles swirls his brandy in its glass, admiring the way the amber liquid gleams in the firelight.

"Charles," Marcus says with a wry smile. Charles is outwardly calm, but inside he's frustrated. He's never really been able to find an "in" with Marcus. The man doesn't seem to have ever really warmed to him.

"Lovely wedding," Charles says. "Er, due to your family's generosity, I mean. Daisy and I are so grateful."

"Yes, well," Marcus says, sipping his own brandy. "Daisy is the baby of the family, after all. You know how it is."

"Indeed," Charles says. "Your–date was looking very well, I must say. How did you meet Nicole?" He doesn't mention that Nicole has already given her version of the story. He wants to hear what Marcus's side of it will be.

Marcus's eyes brighten at the mention of Nicole, which Charles dislikes almost as much as he distrusts it.

"Oh, Nicole is lovely," he says. “I met her when she was still a surgeon. Some of the boys and I had just come from the front, and she stitched us up. Impeccable surgeon; I can't imagine why she quit."

Charles says nothing, and Marcus lets the silence hang. He’s not going to spill his guts to Charles, of all people, but his mind is certainly on Nicole now. It’s often on Nicole these days.

She made such a deep impression on me, even at the time, he thinks thoughtfully, swirling his own brandy in the firelight and only watching Charles out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't really thought of her again, but he remembered her immediately when he ran into her at the soup kitchen.

Nicole is more beautiful than ever, Marcus reflects, even though she looks so sad nowadays. A bit rundown, like she has no one to support her and help look after her.

He’d like to support her. He just wishes she’d let him. She’s so mysterious; she won't tell him anything about her past or circumstances. She says she quit medicine, but Marcus watched her leap into action to help that little girl. She was full of fire, of passion.

That woman didn't quit medicine, or, if she did, she didn't do it by choice, Marcus thinks, frowning to himself. I just wish I could puzzle it out. He sighs, sips his brandy.

"How about you?" Marcus asks aloud at last. "How do you know Nicole?" He already knows exactly how Charles knows Nicole, of course, but he'd like to see if Charles is going to admit it.

"Oh, our families have been old friends for years," Charles says vaguely, waving his brandy in a dismissive arc. "I used to know her quite well at one time. Very regretful that she quit medicine. Big disappointment to her family, I know.

"She's really gone astray, left the family home, won't speak to anyone anymore. Burnt all her bridges in a little fit of temper. Quite sad, really. But there's no saving some people from themselves."

Marcus narrows his eyes but doesn't respond. He doesn't believe Charles, not for a moment. He knows that Charles and Nicole were engaged, and here's Charles denying it.

Besides, people do not quit their stunning medical careers to volunteer at soup kitchens out of "a little fit of temper." Nor do they move out of their big, comfortable childhood homes to live in a rundown hotel on a whim.

Something odd is going on here, and Marcus is determined to get to the bottom of it eventually. For now, he opts to change the subject.

"You really ought to try to make up with Daisy," he says. "I know she's angry about how some of the reception went. Do something nice, take an extended honeymoon."

Charles barks a laugh. "Yes, well, with my work schedule…" he fades off.

Marcus shrugs. "Up to you."

Charles finishes his brandy abruptly, then stands. "Yes, well, best be getting on, anyway," he says, glancing at his watch. "Speaking of Daisy, we do have dinner reservations tonight."

He nods at Marcus before stalking out of the room.

Damn Nicole, Charles thinks as he gets his coat and steps out to hail a cab. Why hasn't she contacted him, why won't she accept his help? Stubborn, stubborn. Nothing is going according to plan, and it makes him nervous.

He slides into the cab, snaps instructions to the driver, and leans back to stare out the window as the streets slip silently by.

Nicole

"Are you sure this is a safe place to talk?" I ask as I slide into the sticky booth in the basement bar, where Kent has asked me to meet him.

"Absolutely," Kent says, motioning for the guy behind the bar to bring me a drink. He's one of those tall, stocky white guys with a balding head who looks more like an ex-wrestler than a bartender.

"This entire establishment is owned by my associates and myself," Kent reassures me.

"Not a safer place in New York City for a quiet little chat."

The bartender, who I now realize is actually one of Kent's gang members, brings me a glass of whisky and retreats back behind the bar. The wrestler vibe makes more sense.

Kent leans forward, steepling his fingers, and searches my face with intense curiosity. I don't know what he's looking for, but after a few moments, he leans back and sighs.

"Now, first things first: I'm a little surprised that you trust me so easily, Nicole. I've met you all of, what, twice? And you're certain I won't betray you? Most people take a little longer to warm up."

He sounds suspicious. I need to play this right. I take a long drink of my whisky before answering.

"I do trust you, Kent, for two reasons: One, I trust Trina, and two, you need me."

Kent raises an eyebrow at this. "Oh, really? And how do I need you?"

Now it's my turn to lean forward and lower my voice.

"You know damn well how often I stitched up inmates in prison over the years. I saved Trina's life, once; she would have been dead before they bothered to get her to the infirmary. I know she told you about that."

"She did," Kent says slowly. "So, this is about what I owe you? Because you protected my sister?"

"No," I say. "I'm saying, I saved more than one life in prison, with my surgical skills. Do you think I had access to a nice big med bay for that? With tools and anesthetic and medication?"

Surprise flickers across Kent's face, like he hadn't thought of that.

"Of course I didn't. I had to use whatever the hell I could get my hands on. I had to improvise, often on the spot as someone was in danger of bleeding out in front of me. And I didn't lose a single patient.

"Now," I continue, "just imagine if I did have access to some decent medical supplies. Imagine what I could do, who I could save, completely off the record. No hospital records. No police questions."

Kent's eyes finally light up in understanding.

"You could be so valuable to the gang," he whispers.

"I could," I say. I knock back the rest of my whisky, and Kent motions for another. "I know that you and Ty are in the gang, and I promised Trina that I'd look after her brothers when I got out.

"Well, I keep my promises. But I want something in return. I want your help."