Scent of Roses & Season of Strangers

by Kat Martin

  Brian looked incredulous. “Laura, where in God’s name—”

  “Not now, Brian. Are you leaving, Jimmy?”

  He looked at her and a muscle ticked in his jaw. His mouth looked tight against the shadow of beard beginning to roughen his cheeks. “I can’t believe it. Little Laura Ferris drawing down on Jimmy Osborn.” He chuckled without mirth. “You got more brass than I thought, babe.” She tensed when he started to move, but he merely stepped around Brian and walked toward the door. “See ya around.”

  She didn’t stop pointing the gun until Jimmy was gone and the door firmly closed. Then she lowered the weapon to her side and let the tears she had been holding slide down her cheeks.

  Brian crossed the room in three long strides. Gently pulling the gun from her fingers, he set it on the table, then eased her into his arms. “It’s all right, honey, don’t cry. He’s gone now. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Laura sniffed back tears. “Brian, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have gone out with him. Julie warned me not to. I wouldn’t have—” she glanced up “—if I hadn’t been so mad at you.”

  His arms tightened protectively around her. “I’m sorry, honey. That’s what I came here to tell you. I know I was wrong to interfere in your life. If I didn’t care so damned much…” The words trailed off and Laura smiled softly. She reached up to touch his cheek.

  “You shaved your beard.”

  “Yeah, I thought it might make me look younger. We aren’t really so far apart in age, you know. I was hoping you’d like the change.”

  “I love it.”

  He smiled and she saw that he had dimples, hidden before by the beard.

  “You were really terrific,” he said, “even if you shouldn’t own a gun.”

  Laura bristled. “That gun saved your ass, Brian Heraldson.”

  “I suppose so. But maybe I could have surprised you and saved my own ass. I used to box in college. I was pretty good at it, too.”

  Laura didn’t tell him Jimmy Osborn wouldn’t have fought by the Queensbury rules. “Thank you for what you did. You would have fought for me. No one has ever done that.”

  “No one?”

  “Except my sister, of course. Julie’s been fighting for me as long as I can remember.”

  He ran a finger along her cheek. “Tonight you fought for yourself.”

  Laura smiled. “I did, didn’t I?” They walked together over to the sofa and sat down, Laura snuggling against him. “You know something, Brian? As terrible as this abduction thing has been, in some way I feel stronger for it. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Maybe. Overcoming adversity often makes people stronger.”

  “I don’t think I’ve overcome anything, but I’m trying. I’m trying very hard.”

  “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 passionate, 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. God help me, I’ve tried to fight it, but I want you so damned much.”

  “I want you, too, Brian. Make love to me…please.”

  He groaned. Another long, deep kiss. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on her halter top. He slid it off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. Laura frantically worked the buttons on his shirt. His chest was wide and nicely furred, more muscular than she had imagined.

  Brian caressed her breasts, 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.

  * * *

  “Ohmygod! Ohmygod!” Shirl 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 Shirl sprang to her feet. Miracle of miracles, Julie had just walked in.

  “Julie!” Racing through the office toward the rear, Shirl slammed to a halt in front of her. “Julie! It’s Mr. Donovan!”

  Julie’s stomach dropped out. “Oh, God, 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, Shirl.” 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, Shirl.” 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 relationship 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, massive 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.

  “Hello, Nathan.”

  “Julie! I’m so damned 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, God, Nathan.” She started to cry, felt those massive, 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 daybed 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 glasses. 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 God.” 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.”

  Dr. McClean just nodded, and Julie turned toward the man on the bed. Dragging in a long, shaky breath, she squared her shoulders and crossed to his bedside, reached down and clasped his frail hand. It felt just as cold and lifeless as Alex looked, and a wave of pity washed over her. Oh Alex. Sitting down beside him, she bent down close to his ear.

  “Alex, it’s Julie. Can you hear me?”

  At first he made no move, just lay there in silence, the only sound the high-pitched bleep of the heart monitor.

  She swallowed past the hard ache in her throat. “Alex, it’s Julie.”

  A slight movement, then his eyelids fluttered and slid open. He looked at her and made a faint nod of his head.

  The ache in her throat grew more fierce. Alex was the father she never had. He had been there since her first struggling days at UCLA. He was her friend and mentor; she couldn’t stand to see him like this.

  “Patrick is coming,” she whispered, fighting desperately not to cry. “You just rest and everything will be all right.”

  His eyes slid closed. He managed the faintest shake of his head. She felt a whisper of movement as he tried to squeeze her hand, then his fingers fell open, limp and unresponsive. Oh, God, he was telling her goodbye. He believed he was dying and he wanted to say his farewells to the people he loved.

  “You’re going to be all right,” she whispered fiercely, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “You have to be. Patrick needs you. I need you.” Her voice broke. “Please, Alex, you can’t leave us now.”

  But his eyes didn’t open and his fingers didn’t move. Julie bent over him and kissed his sunken cheek, silent tears streaming down her face. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “I love you so much. Don’t go, dear Alex. Please don’t leave us.”

  Gentle hands clasped her shoulders. Patrick urged her up from the chair and turned her into his arms. She hadn’t heard him come in, yet she was glad, so glad that he was there.

  “It’s all right, love. My father wouldn’t want you to cry.” His touch was gentle but his face looked grim. Harsh lines cut into his brow and the skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones.

  “We have to help him, Patrick. Surely there is something we can do.”

  “You’ve spoken to Dr. McClean?”

  “Yes, but…he sounded so hopeless.”

  He led her a few feet away. “Whatever happens, it’s in God’s hands now. All we can do is pray.”

  She leaned against him, rested her head on his chest. “I don’t want him to die, Patrick.”

  “I know, love, neither do I.”

  “It hurts, Patrick. God, it hurts so much.” They stood there in silence, clinging to each other, Julie crying, Patrick stroking her hair.

  Julie lifted her head, used the tissue the doctor had given her to dab at the wetness on her cheek. “I’ll be all right, now.”

  * * *

  But she didn’t look all right. She looked pale and shaken and he wished he could do something to take that haunted look away. Turning toward Nathan, he motioned for the big male nurse to take her out of the room. Val watched her go, feeling the weight of her grief, the painful tightening in his chest that he had felt before. Julie loved Alexander Donovan. Losing him was tearing her apart. Strangely enough, her pain seemed also to be his.

  Val waited until she was gone, then sat down in the chair beside the bed, his attention fixed on the frail man lying nearly lifeless beneath the sheets.

  “Hello…Father.”

  Watery blue eyes slid open. Shrewd eyes, perceptive, even in the face of death. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Val wondered what the old man might say if he were able to speak.

  “Take it easy. You need your rest. You need to try and get some sleep.” So far he had spent little time in the old man’s company, just stopped by the house on occasion as Patrick would have done. He didn’t want to chance more. If anyone would notice the differences i
n Patrick Donovan since Val’s arrival, it was his father.

  He stirred faintly on the bed. One hand was frozen by the stroke, the other started to tremble. He was trying to lift it, Val saw, to reach out and touch his son. Val took the old man’s hand and the moment their fingers brushed, a fierce ache constricted inside him. His throat hurt. A lump formed so thick and heavy he feared he would choke.

  “Father,” he whispered, knowing the emotion he was feeling was grief. It came from Patrick, was the same pain Julie felt, though Val was able to distance himself, keep the unwanted emotions at a manageable length.

  It was Julie he was worried about, Julie who would suffer at the death of someone she loved.

  In an instant, his decision was made. Knowing he shouldn’t, that whatever happened was best left in the hands of fate, Val leaned closer. Alex Donovan’s eyes were closed but the thin veined hand still clung to his. Digging into his pocket, Val removed a small silver plate half the size of a dollar bill and a quarter of an inch thick. It was for medical emergencies. The body he occupied was human, after all. Any number of problems might occur.

  Val freed himself from the fragile grip, pressed the plate into his palm then once again reached for the old man’s hand. He wasn’t sure how much good it would do. The stroke had obviously done extensive damage. But perhaps it would help and if Alex Donovan lived, it would also help Julie, make her terrible sadness go away.

  He sat there for several minutes more, then removed the silver plate and shoved it back into his pocket. When he stood up, he saw Julie standing at the door.

  “What was that?” she asked as he approached.

  “What was what?”

  “I thought I saw you put something…” She glanced away, a little embarrassed. “Never mind. I can’t seem to think straight with Alex the way he is.”

  The doctor walked up just then. “I think we should let him get some rest.” He flicked a glance at Patrick. “Are you planning to spend the night here or…” Or do you have other more important plans than your father’s last night on Earth, his condemning look said.