by Kat Martin
He said nothing to that, but his shoulders sagged a little, and some of his cockiness faded. “He’s not doing so well, Jules. The doctors are afraid he might have another stroke.”
“Oh, God, Patrick.”
“I’m sure he’ll be all right. The old goat’s too tough to die.” He smiled but it came out a little shaky. “You said you needed to see me. What about?”
Escaping the painful subject of Alex’s failing health, Julie pulled the thick sheaf of documents out of the file she’d retrieved from her briefcase. “I’ve got an offer on one of the units in your condo project. Mr. and Mrs. Harvey are interested in buying number thirty-three.”
His long fingers tightened around the burgundy Mont Blanc pen he was holding. “I thought you said you didn’t like the project, that it was too shaky, that you wouldn’t put one of your clients into the development until it was almost full.”
“I think the construction could be better. You skimped too much as far as I’m concerned. But the Harveys insisted I show it to them. They like the location—so do I for that matter. Santa Monica is growing and this is very near the beach. Besides, you said the units had finally begun to sell. The last time I checked the board it looked like over fifty percent of the project was now sold out.”
Instead of looking happy, Patrick looked grim. “Condos aren’t your normal dose of poison, Julie. Are these people friends of yours? How did you wind up working with them?”
“I got them on a floor call while I was covering for Fred. Mr. Harvey is a retired aerospace engineer. They made a little money buying and selling houses when the market was good. That’s why they’re purchasing a condo. They plan to pay cash for it, and whatever is left will be a nest egg for their old age.”
Patrick said nothing for the longest time.
“I thought you’d be happy,” Julie said. “I know how much that project means to you. You risked everything when you decided to build it.”
His shrugged his wide shoulders, rustling his custom-fitted Oxford-cloth shirt. “In the beginning, I may have felt that way. Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because now other people are involved. When I couldn’t get the construction money I needed, I had to take in partners. Lately they’ve been calling most of the shots.”
He shoved back his chair and came to his feet, then leaned toward her over the desk. With those piercing blue eyes and hard jaw, he could look darned intimidating when he wanted to. “I’ll give you a word of advice, Julie—I shouldn’t but I will. Put your clients in some other deal. Something that isn’t so risky. That’s all I’m going to say on the subject and if anyone asks, I never said anything at all. If your people won’t listen, that’s their problem. If they still want the property on Monday and the price is right, they’ve bought themselves a new home.”
“You took an offer from Fred’s clients, why don’t you want this one?”
Instead of giving her an answer, he turned away. “I’ve got to go.” Reaching behind him, he jerked his black Italian-cut sports jacket off the wooden valet in the corner. “I just remembered something I have to do.”
“Wait a minute, Patrick, I don’t understand why all of a sudden—”
“See you later, Julie.” And then he was gone.
Julie stared after him, wondering how he always managed to leave her speechless.
* * *
Val tried to concentrate on the screen, review the notes on his latest experiment, but he felt restless. In nearly half a lifetime, he hadn’t learned the virtue of patience. He wondered if he ever would.
For the sixth time since his arrival in the lab, he turned to his message file, hoping to find some news, then sighed inwardly when he found nothing there. It had been nearly a full month since the council had agreed to his plan. Initial preparations had been made. Now he was forced to wait.
The mission could not be accomplished until a suitable donor was found. In order for that to happen, a death had to occur. Sophisticated computer calculations had come up with a list of possible candidates, people who lived or worked in close proximity to the Ferris subject.
The data had shown a ninety-percent probability that one of the primary donor candidates would face a life-threatening occurrence within ninety days; a seventy-percent chance it would happen in less than sixty; and a fifty-percent chance it would happen within thirty days from the date the calculations were made.
Unfortunately, it hadn’t.
Unfortunately for him, he reminded himself, but not for the donor. Still, there was nothing personal involved. Now that the project was underway, he just wanted to get on with it.
He punched up a row of symbols. Though he knew the information well, he found himself returning to the donor file. The Alexander Donovan candidate was predicted to be the most likely. He was the eldest and in the worst physical condition. He was also the least desirable. He had no use of his legs and less access to the Ferris woman than the others.
The Fred Thompkins candidate was closer to the subject since he worked in her office. His heart was unstable and he could suffer a heart attack at any time. Unfortunately, as with the previous candidate, he was still much older, and he had only limited subject contact.
Perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful that so far nothing had happened. It was the Patrick Donovan candidate he really wanted as the donor. Physically the younger Donovan was within his prime years, just as Val was. Donovan’s body was physically abused, but with a little effort on his part, it could be returned to the superior specimen it once was. The man was intelligent, appeared to have plenty of the trading currency used on Earth, and worked in close proximity to the subject.
As her superior, he even had a certain amount of control over her. It was only logical Val should prefer Patrick Donovan over the others.
And from what their sensors had discovered, not only did Donovan have a weak wall in his heart that was on the verge of collapse, his behavior patterns were conducive to hurrying the event along.
Val couldn’t help a small throb of excitement, a rare emotion in his experience, rare, for that matter, for anyone from his planet. Science was everything there. Discoveries were made daily, hourly, becoming almost mundane.
But this was different. Experiencing a new world—not from the outside looking in, as they had been doing for hundreds of years. But from the inside—from an actual functioning position within the world they studied. Though he would technically be there to discover the reason for the Ferris woman’s exceptional resistance, it was the knowledge of Earth in general that Val found so intriguing.
He punched in the symbols and opened another computer file, deciding to reread the reports he had requested, observations, limited though they were, made by his predecessors during their brief stay on Earth. There wasn’t much, he knew. The process called Unification had only been done a few times, and never for any duration.
Still it was something. When the time came for him to go, he wanted to be prepared.
* * *
Patrick Donovan reached for the rolled-up hundred-dollar bill lying on the acrylic coffee table in front of the sofa in his penthouse apartment. “How ’bout another little toot, baby?”
Anna Braxston smiled. She was a classy piece of ass, no doubt about it. In her long, slinky, black-sequined dress, her blond hair piled up in soft waves on top of her head, she looked like she’d just walked off a page out of Vogue. She was almost as tall as he was in her high-heeled shoes, though the shoes had come off long ago, along with the dress and all but the skimpy little peach satin teddy she was wearing.
“Thanks, honey.” She set her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, a fine thread of smoke drifting up. He’d been trying to quit, but what the hell? He reached over and took a long lung-filling draw, let the smoke drift out through his nostrils.
A
nna took the rolled-up bill, leaned over and snorted a long line of powdery cocaine up her nose. A second line followed. She wiped the residue away, leaned over and rubbed a coke-laden finger across his lips, but he was too far gone to feel the numbing sensation.
He poured a shot of tequila into his glass and tossed it back, grimaced at the fiery taste, and took the bill from her hand. Another line of coke disappeared, then another. She was after him to do a speedball—half heroin, half cocaine. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that…then again, maybe later….
He leaned back on the gray wool sofa, felt her long supple fingers running through his curly black chest hair. He was already hard. She unzipped his navy blue slacks, the only clothes he still had on, reached inside his fly and freed his erection, then began to gently stroke him.
“You like that, don’t you,” she purred. It wasn’t a question. She’d have to be a fool to think he didn’t. Sex was the only thing he liked more than booze and drugs, the only thing that still gave him the kind of kicks he’d always needed. Everything else seemed bland in comparison, and he had tried them all.
Sports cars when he was in high school. Motorcycle racing after that. He had run the European circuit two years in a row, staying on to ski the winter in St. Moritz. He’d gotten his pilot’s license, bought an old P-38, had it completely refitted, flown it in the Reno Air Races and come in third, then gotten bored and sold it for less than he’d paid for it. He’d tried skydiving. Not bad. Especially after he had done it high on cocaine.
With no responsibilities, no one to answer to but a father who was buried to his bushy gray eyebrows in work, and more money than any kid his age had a right to have, he figured why not enjoy himself? And so he always had.
Anna’s lips moved over his hardened length, stroking him like a pro. His muscles flexed. He thrust upward and groaned. When she stopped for a moment to help him slide on a condom, he propped his back against the sofa, pulled her teddy off over her head, cupped her buttocks, and dragged her up on top of him, spreading her long legs until she straddled him.
“Oh, yes,” Anna whispered. “Give it to me, honey.”
He’d give it to her, all right. All she could take and more. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, felt her soft little breasts pressing into his chest. Her nipples were hard and distended. She was slick and hot, gloving his erection neatly.
“Hand me a popper,” he said as he flexed his hips, moving in and out with a slow rhythm that had her panting and squirming. She picked the drug up off the end table, neatly broke the capsule in half, and shoved it under his nose.
God, what a rush.
He ground himself deeper, thrust into her harder, fought to hold his climax in check. He liked it this way, being in control, setting the pace.
Doing something to please somebody besides himself.
But then he liked it just about any way he could get it. Not very personal, he supposed. Not very meaningful. Just more kicks to keep him going, something to help him tolerate the empty, vacuous days.
Something to distract him from the money he was losing, the father he’d disappointed, the mess he had made of his life.
* * *
Coming in from the parking lot, Julie walked in the back door of the office just in time to see Patrick walking out the front.
“Patrick! Patrick, wait a minute! I’ve got to talk to you!” She was late getting to work. She’d gone by to see Dr. Heraldson, Laura’s psychiatrist, who had asked for a meeting to discuss Laura’s childhood, hoping he might uncover something that would help him understand what Laura was going through. Dr. Marsh, their family physician, had found nothing physically wrong with her, but Laura’s paranoia had continued to increase, and her nightmares were getting worse. Julie wished she knew what to do.
She glanced ahead to Patrick’s tall retreating figure. “Damn it, Patrick!” She raced down the sidewalk in pursuit, but didn’t catch up with him until he’d reached the corner. “Where the hell are you going in such an all-fired hurry?” Panting with exertion, she leaned against the lamppost, watched Patrick’s long dark fingers punch the button on the light so he could cross the street.
“I’ve got a lunch date with Anna.” He turned to face her, winked, and flashed her a cocky, wicked grin. “Want to come along?”
It was the first time today that she had actually seen his face, and something clenched hard in her stomach. “My God, Patrick, what in the world have you done to yourself?”
His fine black brows drew together in a frown. “Give me a break, will you? So I’m a little washed out. I haven’t had a chance to catch any rays lately.”
He started across the street, but Julie caught his arm. “This is serious, Patrick. Your face is so pale it’s practically blue. Something’s wrong. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m fine. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“More problems with the Rabinoff closing. I thought maybe you could help.” She stopped him the minute they reached the curb on the opposite side of the street. “Patrick, your health is more important than any closing. Something is seriously wrong with you. For once in your life, please, will you listen?”
He stopped in the alley outside The Grill, a nearby restaurant that was a local haunt for movie higher-ups: producers, directors, agents, a few hopeful starlets and a lot of hangers-on. “I’ve got a little heartburn, okay? I’ll be fine just as soon as I eat.”
Julie’s face turned nearly as pale as Patrick’s. “You’re having chest pains?”
“Heartburn. That’s all it is. I took some Maalox tablets. In a few more minutes, they’ll kick in and I’ll feel great.”
“Patrick, listen to me—” She took a deep breath, terrified he wouldn’t, since he never had before.
Before she could finish, Patrick swayed and leaned against the wall, one hand flat against it, the other sliding up the lapel of his coat, stopping somewhere near his empty breast pocket. His breath seemed to catch on a heavy gasp of air, and his eyes looked suddenly frightened.
“Julie…” The words passed through lips that were dry and the same pale color as his face.
“Oh, my God!”
His legs turned to rubber. He swayed and slid down the wall, coming to rest slumped over at the bottom. Beads of perspiration popped out across his forehead and dampened the black hair at his temple.
“Somebody help us!” Julie looked frantically toward the people passing by on the sidewalk just a few feet away. “Please…somebody call 911!” A few heads swiveled in their direction, but no one ran into the alley or even started walking their way.
Julie fumbled with her purse, finally found her cell phone and made the call herself. She was shaking by the time she finished.
She forced a note of calm into her voice. “Take it easy, Patrick. Help is on the way.” She didn’t know if he could hear her, but it gave her a feeling of being back in control. Up ahead, the valet in front of The Grill had just hopped into a big white Mercedes-Benz and driven away.
No help there.
She didn’t know CPR. For years she had been going to take a class, but there never seemed to be enough time. Leaving Patrick on the sidewalk, she raced to the shiny brass doors of the restaurant, pulled one of them open and rushed inside.
“Please, you have to help me,” she said to the dark-haired maître d’. “Patrick Donovan’s on the sidewalk outside. I think he’s having a heart attack. Is there someone here who can do CPR?”
“I know Patrick,” the man said. “He’s too young to be having a heart attack. It’s probably just gas or something.”
“It isn’t just gas! You’ve got to help us! Patrick may be dying!”
He went into action then, telling her not to worry, hurrying toward the paging system and asking if there was a doctor in the house. Julie raced back outside. By now a
small crowd had gathered. She shouldered her way toward a man in a navy blue suit leaning over Patrick’s now unconscious form.
“A-are you a doctor?”
“No.” The slender man stood up and backed away. “I’m a stockbroker. But I checked for a pulse and I couldn’t find one. I don’t think he’s breathing.”
Julie swallowed past a growing lump of fear. “Do you know CPR?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Is there anyone here who does?” When no one in the small, worried crowd answered, she steeled herself. She had seen it done, but she had never tried it. Still, someone had to do something and fast. “Well then,” she said, forcing a note of authority into her voice. “Get out of my way so I can get to work.”
* * *
They wouldn’t let her ride with him in the ambulance. She wasn’t his next of kin, after all, and he still wasn’t breathing on his own. His heart had not responded to her clumsy efforts at CPR and the ambulance seemed to have taken forever to get there.
Julie drove like a woman possessed all the way to Cedar Sinai Hospital. She hadn’t called Patrick’s father yet, afraid the news might cause Alex to have another stroke. Better to wait, see what the doctors had to say.
Better to pray that Patrick was still alive when she got there.
On trembling legs, she shoved through the glass doors into the reception area and hurried toward the information desk, stopped at the counter, afraid to ask, afraid she already knew the answer.
She had called Babs on her cell, had found her at the office, which wasn’t too far away. Now the sight of her friend’s purposeful, no-nonsense strides as she pushed through the front doors into the lobby gave Julie a shot of courage. She took a slow, bracing breath and worked to calm her thundering heart.
With a small silent prayer, she turned toward the desk and spoke to the gray-haired receptionist, who looked at her over the top of her gold-rimmed reading glasses.