She was interrupted when the two uniformed men returned. Claire couldn’t tell anything from the sergeant, who was expressionless, but the lieutenant looked vaguely uncomfortable. The big man sat behind the desk while the sergeant remained standing at the door.
Luke leaned forward, placing his forearms on the desk and clasping his hands. Claire once again felt intimidated by his size, but she sensed that his response to her had softened. For the first time she really looked at the man, noting his strong features, high cheekbones and full lips. His close cropped hair was dark blond, contrasting somewhat with dark eyebrows shading hazel eyes. Laugh lines were prominent in their corners, hinting that he smiled a lot.
“Ms. Olsen,” he began, his gaze holding hers. She was briefly distracted when she noted the amber striations in his otherwise greenish-brown eyes. “Sergeant Mancini was able to obtain the surveillance footage from last night and we’ve reviewed it several times.” He paused for emphasis. “It confirmed your account of the attack.”
“Well, of course—”
Holding up his hand, he interrupted. “But I still have some questions...”
Claire suddenly felt very vulnerable. Her eyes burned and she blinked several times, trying to keep from falling apart.
Luke abandoned professionalism and reached across the desk to gently pat her hand, surprising them both. Quickly, he pulled back his hand and actually shuffled in his chair.
“I’m sorry, Miss Olsen. Please don’t be alarmed.” He sounded as if he wasn’t used to apologizing. “I need to explain. I’m an analyst. I spend pretty much all day every day trying to understand and interpret information. We’re trained to not take anything at face value, and I transferred my ingrained skepticism to your situation. At any rate, my initial mistrust was unwarranted. Please, I sincerely apologize for doubting your account.” He glanced at Tony, who responded with a tiny approving nod.
Returning his gaze to Claire he continued, “I needed to get the facts, but I still don’t think I have them all.” He held up his hand again. “No, not about you, but I’m still trying to put everything together...to get it straight. It simply doesn’t make sense.”
Claire frowned, but she was willing to accept his explanation and maybe his apology. She swallowed and asked, “What...What else can I tell you?”
He paused to stare at his hands for a moment, evidently contemplating his next question. Finally he met her eyes and asked, “Do you have any martial arts training?”
“Martial arts?” She shook her head. “No. None.”
“Are you sure?” His drawl was back.
She gave him a scathing look and huffed, “I thought you’d decided to believe me!”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He sighed. “It’s just that the moves you made... On the video... It looked like some sort of kung fu or tae kwon do.”
She pressed her lips together and actually smiled for a tiny second. “Uh, no. That was—well—it was from ice skating.” Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper.
“I’m sorry?” It was his turn to look confused. “What about ice skating?”
“The moves.”
He still seemed baffled.
“I am—well I used to be—a figure skater. I guess that last night during the—uh—encounter, the moves just kind of happened.” Her voice quieted even more when she said the word “encounter.” She paused a breath before continuing. “It wasn’t anything I thought about or planned, I just reacted.”
Luke sat back in his chair and looked at her with something approaching shock. “Ice skating?” He seemed to reflect on what she’d said, as if replaying the video in his mind. Understanding seemed to dawn. “So that’s why you kept going, even after you’d been cut?” It was both a comment and a question.
“Yes, I suppose.” She shrugged. “You get used to ignoring pain during training. You fall so frequently that bruises, sprains and even cuts are common, so if you quit every time something hurts, you’d never progress...”
“Well, okay...” He leaned forward in his chair again, staring at his clasped hands. Finally his eyes rose to hold hers. “Miss Olsen. In my experience, I’ve known a lot of football players and combat soldiers who were easily more than twice your size, who didn’t have the fortitude you showed last night.” He stood and held his hand as a peace offering. “One of my redeeming qualities is I can admit when I’ve been wrong. I truly apologize for my harsh questioning and for doubting your veracity. Please let me shake your hand.”
Claire was stunned. His eyes pinned hers and she blinked. Nodding slightly, she rose and allowed his huge hand to swallow hers a second time. Marveling at the size difference, she murmured, “It’s okay. I understand. You were just doing your job.”
* * *
LUKE CONTINUED TO STARE at her oddly colored eyes. And then she smiled. The smile was shy and incredibly sweet. The flush that Luke felt was concurrent with an odd tightening in his chest. He recognized the sensation immediately. He had just lost his heart.
CLAIRE CRADLED THE little girl in her arms, gently rocking back and forth. She mumbled some words in poorly accented, broken Korean. The child probably couldn’t comprehend, but Claire hoped the words would comfort her nonetheless. Hyo-joo was small for her age, having battled leukemia for the past six months. Despite her outward appearance, Hyo-joo was one of the fortunate ones. There were still many hurdles to overcome, not the least of which were opportunistic infections and reoccurrence, but thanks to powerful drugs, radiation and a bone marrow transplant from her father, the child was winning the battle.
They were sitting in the brightly colored playroom of the children’s wing. The room was a place of respite—a spot to distract both patients and their families from the pain and uncertainty inherent with cancer—as well as a laboratory. Several years before, a forward-thinking doctor, schooled in both Eastern and Western medicine, had set up the playroom/laboratory to institute a more holistic approach to the management of children with cancer. He’d started with a half-dozen electronic play stations with computer games for children from ages one to twenty-one. Those had grown in number, been updated several times, and were perpetually busy from early in the morning until after what should have been the children’s bedtime. The computers were a diversion for the very ill children as well as a resource for the doctors and nurses to assess the cognitive and psychomotor function of the young patients. They could also be used as educational tools, as many of the children lost significant time in school when they were hospitalized for weeks and even months.
Claire clucked her tongue and whistled quietly, gaining the attention of the Scottish terrier who’d been resting on a bed in a corner of the large room. “Come, Kai-ji.” The dog jumped up from her perch and happily trotted over to nuzzle the sick girl.
During the second year of the playroom’s existence, pet therapy was instituted. The program was started with one small dog; now there were four. In addition to the little Scottie, there was a West Highland white terrier, a cocker spaniel and a standard poodle. The therapy dogs loved children, were patient and well trained, and—very important—they did not shed. Each was remarkably intuitive, somehow knowing which children were ill and limiting rambunctious play with them. Oftentimes the dogs would respond even more appropriately to a child’s condition than the nurses and doctors, amazing Claire.
The most recent additions to the holistic therapy program were keyboards and flutes. The hospital had employed a full-time music therapist who taught the children music theory and how to play the instruments. The idea was to help re-direct the young patients from focusing on their illnesses to thinking about their recovery. Claire had been skeptical at first, but after working with the therapist and seeing his results, she’d