Part 20 (2/2)
”That's all that matters, honey.” He kissed the top of her head. ”I can't tell you I believe in this alien thing, but I want you to know, I'm with you. I hope you'll consider my advice-as your friend-but however you want to approach this, I'll go along.”
Laura slid her arms around his neck. ”Thank you, Brian. That's all I could ever ask.” She kissed him then, a soft sort of thank-you that mushroomed into something hotter, sweeter, far more insistent.
Laura pulled him down on the sofa and the kiss turned wildly pa.s.sionate, a fusing of mouths, a stroking of hands on flesh, a straining of bodies to press more closely together.
Brian kissed the side of her neck. ”I want you, Laura. G.o.d help me, I've tried to fight it, but I want you so d.a.m.ned much.”
”I want you, too, Brian. Make love to me...please.”
He groaned. Another long, deep kiss. His fingers fumbled with the b.u.t.tons on her halter top. He slid it off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. Laura frantically worked the b.u.t.tons on his s.h.i.+rt. His chest was wide and nicely furred, more muscular than she had imagined.
Brian caressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then lowered his head to take one into his mouth. ”You're beautiful,” he whispered, tasting the soft white mound. ”I knew you would be.”
Feverishly they shed the rest of their clothes then Brian pressed her down on the sofa and came up over her, entering her with a single smooth stroke. Bodies came together, fast, hot, and furious at first, the second time more slowly, much more gently.
Brian fell asleep in Laura's arms, his dark head resting against her breast. She stroked his thick brown hair and felt content in a way she couldn't recall. Perhaps it was knowing he cared. Perhaps it was how much she had come to care for him.
Her eyes slid closed and she thought that she would sleep. She was stronger, now, she told herself, proud of her actions in saving them both from Jimmy. But sleep didn't come, and in the hours before dawn, she found herself listening instead, straining to hear the night sounds more clearly, listening for a dull thick hum.
No sound came that night. No one disturbed her. But sooner or later they would-Laura was certain of it.
Even with Brian beside her, worry rose up, gnawing at her insides, and she couldn't shake the fear.
”OhmyG.o.d! OhmyG.o.d!” s.h.i.+rl Bingham pulled off her headset and dropped it onto the desktop in front of her. Her hands were still shaking from the call that had just come in. She had to find Patrick or Julie, but both of them were out.
Just then the back door slammed and s.h.i.+rl sprang to her feet. Miracle of miracles, Julie had just walked in.
”Julie!” Racing through the office toward the rear, s.h.i.+rl slammed to a halt in front of her. ”Julie! It's Mr. Donovan!”
Julie's stomach dropped out. ”Oh, G.o.d, tell me it isn't his heart.”
”Not Patrick! Patrick's father-he's had another stroke!”
The little blood left drained from Julie's face. ”Oh, no. Have they taken him to the hospital?”
”Apparently he's still at home. The doctor said moving him would be more dangerous than leaving him where he was. Oh, Julie I feel so awful. Mr. Donovan is such a nice man.”
Julie shoved down the fear coursing through her. ”We don't know how bad it is yet. We have to think positive, s.h.i.+rl.” She grabbed her purse and her car keys. ”Page Patrick, tell him what's happened. Tell him I've gone to see his father.” She rushed toward the rear office door, stopped and turned. ”Oh, and cancel my afternoon appointments. There's a woman-Mrs. Rosenberg. Her number's in the address book on my desk. I'm supposed to show her houses at three. Tell her there's been an emergency. Try to reschedule for sometime next week.”
”I'll take care of it.”
”Thanks, s.h.i.+rl.” She was out the door in a flash, into her little silver sports car, shoving her key into the ignition with shaking hands. Oh, dear Lord, poor Alex. He had suffered so much already. And Patrick would be frantic. He loved his father. Their relations.h.i.+p was difficult for him and they hadn't been really close in years, but the love was there between them, fighting to break through.
The tires squealed as Julie revved the engine of the Mercedes and pulled out of the parking lot onto Canon Drive. A few minutes later she was rolling eighty miles an hour down the Glendale freeway, heading for the Flintridge turnoff.
Alexander Donovan's Mediterranean estate sat on Chevy Chase Drive. It stood two stories high, had nine bedrooms, each with its own private bath; a library; a solarium; a billiards parlor; and a separate building for the servants' quarters in the rear. Julie stopped the car in front of the big iron gates, punched in the security code, and the gates swung open. She pulled the car directly to the front door and jumped out, leaving the keys in the ignition. The butler opened the door before she reached it, and she stepped into the red-tiled entry.
It was cool in the house, ma.s.sive potted palms waving in the slight breeze drifting in through the tall open windows. The soft aqua of the pool out in back contrasted the stark white walls. Only the antiseptic, hospital smell pervading the house hinted that all was not well.
”Come in, Ms. Ferris.” The butler, a black-haired, meticulous little Italian named Mario, stood at the door. ”We've been expecting you and Mr. Patrick.”
”Patrick was out of the office when the call came in. They'll be trying him on his pager and cell phone. I'm sure he'll be here soon.” She glanced toward Alex's room upstairs and nervously dampened her lips. ”How's he doing?”
Mario shook his head. ”Not so good, Ms. Ferris. The ambulance came right away when we called 911, but they decided not to move him. The doctor's up there with him now. And Nathan is with him.”
Julie blinked against the quick burn of tears. ”I'd better go up, too.” She left the butler and climbed the stairs, her limbs heavy, her mouth dry as cotton. She had known there was every chance Alex would have another stroke and that if he did, it might be fatal, but still she wasn't prepared.
At the top of the stairs, she took a deep breath then plunged on down the hall. Nathan Jefferson Jones, Alex's brawny African-American nurse and longtime friend, stood outside the door.
”h.e.l.lo, Nathan.”
”Julie! I'm so d.a.m.ned glad you're here. Mr. D's been asking for you.”
”How is he, Nathan?”
His usually round face looked haggard, almost gaunt. ”I won't lie to you, Julie. It looks real bad.”
”Oh, G.o.d, Nathan.” She started to cry, felt those ma.s.sive, muscular arms go around her, holding her ever so gently. She had seen him hold Alex that same way whenever he needed help and a feeling of tenderness for the big man swept through her. ”Thank you, Nathan. I'll be all right now.”
Straightening her shoulders, she stepped away from him, then nodded and he opened the door.
Julie walked into a room that looked more like an oversized hospital room than any sort of bedroom, had since Alex's first stroke. Boasting a remote-controlled, fully adjustable day bed with metal bars suspended above to help a patient lever himself up, there was also a rolling bedside food tray, an intercom system, and an overhead, adjustable hi-def TV.
Today intravenous tubes hung from wheeled carts, dripping fluid into Alex's thin arms. Oxygen bottles sat against the wall, and a heart monitor beeped its rhythm near the head of the bed. The room was a jumble of medical apparatus, most of which Julie couldn't name, and amidst it all, a pale, shrunken Alexander Donovan lay still as death beneath the covers, his face as starkly white as the fine cotton sheets.
The doctor approached as Julie walked in. Dr. Cyrus McClean was in his forties with thinning gray hair and gla.s.ses. He was the top man in his field, recommended by Martin Cane, the Donovan's longtime family physician. Julie had known McClean since Alex's first stroke and the doctor knew that to Alex, Julie was family.
He took her arm and led her to a quiet corner and urged her into a chair.
”How-how is he?” she asked.
”I'll be honest, Julie. The prognosis isn't good. Alex wasn't fully recovered from his previous stroke when this one occurred. If he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, he might have a chance, but...”
”Go on, Dr. McClean, please. I need to know.”
”I'm sorry, but the odds aren't good that will happen.”
A thick lump rose in her throat. ”You're telling me...you're saying that Alex is dying.”
”I'm afraid so...yes.”
”Oh, dear G.o.d.” Tears burned her eyes, began to slide down her cheeks. The doctor pulled a tissue from the pocket of his white coat and handed it over.
”He's been conscious off and on. He's asked for you and Patrick. I'm glad at least one of you is here.”
She ignored the censure in his voice. She knew what the doctor thought of Alex's wayward son. ”Patrick hasn't heard. I'm sure he'll be here soon.”
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