by Jane Drager
To take his mind off the ungodly wait, Deems phoned Lou and explained the situation, canceled Lauren’s security detail, and asked Lou to assign Robert’s replacement. Normally, he’d ask his assistant, Betty, to do all this stuff, but she left for a weekend trip to Connecticut with her family. After disconnecting from Lou, he phoned the building’s maintenance department and told the manager to make haste with the repairs to the Stewarts’ condo once the NYPD crime scene crew finished their work. The door, the rugs, and several pieces of furniture needed the best repair available, and he wanted the place spotless before the Stewarts returned. He’d notify Carol and Bill tomorrow to inform them of the ‘death’ of some of their precious babies.
From the hallway, a plump woman with a head of silver hair gestured with a quick wave of her hand. “Mr. Lambert?”
With his stomach fluttering, he followed her down a row of curtained bays full of moaning and groaning patients. “How’s she doing?”
Smiling, she glanced over her shoulder. “Not bad considering. We wheeled her from the trauma room to a bay on the end. She’s awake.” She led the way around the nurses’ station until stopping to swing open a drape. “The doctor is writing her discharge papers.”
Deems hesitated. Why, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in his chest nor ease the flutter in his belly.
The nurse nodded toward the opening. “She’ll be all right. I’ll leave you two in privacy.” She retreated to another part of the emergency room.
Deems entered a ten-by-twelve-foot bay with curtains on three sides. A wall with cabinets and sink was to the rear. Over the stretcher hung a monitor showing a heart rate and a bunch of numbers of which he had no clue.
Lauren’s eyes were closed. She had a sheet snuggled under her chin with her body curled into a ball. The discoloration to the left side of her jaw was more pronounced against the paleness of her face. A black eye slowly rose to the surface as the blood from her head wound pooled beneath the skin around her left eye socket.
A lump caught in his throat to see her so banged up. Yet, he had to stand still and let the relief sink in. He’d almost lost her and silently cursed Eric, damning him to hell. And Jan… He blamed his sister for all that happened. She’d brought Eric into her life, and Eric nearly took Lauren’s. Deems had warned Jan, but, of course, she was love-struck and rejected his advice. At the thought, he gripped the stretcher’s handrail.
Lauren touched his hand. Startled, he looked down to see one green eye watching him. The other eye was half-closed from the pooled blood. He leaned over to kiss her swollen lips then tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I don’t think I’ve ever run up four flights of stairs so fast.”
Her lips twitched into a half-grin. “Eric?”
“Escaped. Your backpack is missing so he grabbed what he came for.”
A tear formed against the bridge of her nose.
Snapping a tissue from the box behind her, he dabbed her good eye.
She took the tissue and patted the swollen eye. With an effort, she rolled onto her butt and winced before shooting him a pleading gaze. “Deems—”
Somehow, he understood precisely what she wanted. He slipped his hands under her armpits and helped reposition her body on the stretcher.
Grimacing, she mouthed the words, “Thank you.” Elevating her left hand, she inspected the splinted pinkie. “I threw Mrs. Stewart’s prized orchids at Eric. She’ll hate me.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
Oh, God, this woman was beaten to hell, and all she worried about were flowers. He slipped his hand under her uninjured one and stroked her skin with his thumb. “You leave everything to me. Your job is to rest and recuperate.”
“But the mess—”
He wagged a finger. “I’ve already notified the proper personnel.”
A smile curled one side of her mouth. “You can tell her not to pay me for these last two weeks.”
“I’m sure she won’t hear of such a request.” He fingered a few strands of her hair, damp after a quick rinse to wash out the blood. The doctor shaved her hair to stitch her head wound but left the area uncovered. Cringing, he counted the stitches. Eight, nine, maybe ten. “The doctors are releasing you, as long as you go easy for the next few days. You’ll miss some class time, but you can return if you promise not to do anything strenuous.”
“I promise.” She shifted on her butt. “What about Jan? Does she know?”
At the mention of his sister’s name, he bristled. All his anger resurfaced, and he swallowed hard. “Baylor called her.” Thankfully. Otherwise, Deems might strangle his own sister.
Lifting her hand from his, she toyed with his jacket sleeve. Then she opened the suit jacket to inspect his shirt and tie. Another tear fell. “Your clothes are ruined.”
Blood smeared every part of his clothing. Her blood. From holding her. “Don’t care.” She looked so beaten-down and vulnerable, and his throat tightened. He wished he could erase all her pain and wrap her in his arms. Instead, he leaned on the bed rail, reclaimed her hand, and kissed the bruised knuckles. “I have instructions on what you can and cannot do. You’re to listen to me, hear?”
“Yes, sir.” She yawned and winced than shot him a sheepish glance. “Everything hurts.”
He brushed a thumb across her swollen lips. She kissed the tip, and his heart melted. “We’ll leave as soon as Lou gets here. In the meantime, they’re giving you a pain reliever.”
“I can use something.” She shifted her butt on the thin gurney pad and then met his gaze. “Are you staying with me?”
“Of course. The doctor stipulated you not be left alone. You know, someone to make sure you don’t experience a change in mental status.”
The silver-haired nurse entered, holding a filled syringe at the ready and an ice pack. She smiled at Deems. “The needle for her posterior and the ice for her eye.”
Clearing his throat, he released Lauren’s hand and stepped toward the curtain. “I’ll check on Lou.” No way could he watch the nurse stick a needle into Lauren’s pretty butt.
****
Lauren’s headache jarred her awake. The room was nearly dark, or perhaps nearly light. She couldn’t tell which. The pain killer had knocked her out, and she had no idea how she arrived wherever she was. She lifted her head and looked around.
A large, unfamiliar bedroom stretched before her. Propping herself onto one elbow, she winced from the throb of muscles unwilling to cooperate. Then, she nearly poked herself in the eye with her pinkie splint while reaching to hold her pounding head in place. Sighing, she scanned the king-sized bed with a sound-asleep Deems beside her. A digital clock on his nightstand showed five-fifteen. Predawn. She’d been out for a good eleven hours.
Slipping from the covers, she stood shakily with an aim for the nearest bathroom. A draft caught her backside. She glanced down to see herself wearing an oversized T-shirt smelling of musk, no socks, no pants, or underwear. Every part of her body complained with movement, but she shuffled toward a side door and, with luck, discovered the master bath, also large. A cute, little light over the toilet allowed her to see and, thankfully, hid her reflection in the mirror.
Afterward, she re-entered the bedroom and wiggled her toes in the plush carpeting. Floor-to-ceiling draperies stretched the entire length of one wall, the center partially opened to allow the glow of city lights through the glass. Heavy, masculine furniture decorated the room and, even in dim light, showed solid brass hardware. She approached the windows.
Shifting aside the drapes, she experienced a strange sense of disorientation at the view. She rubbed her one good eye and then looked again. The city lights twinkled back, along with headlights from Manhattan’s never-ending traffic. But her gaze froze on the sight of the copper-tiled church steeple and the rooftop garden. The same view met her every night from the Stewarts’ sunroom. This scene isn’t possible…unless I’m higher in the same building.
With a shake of her head, she closed her eyes and d
ebated whether she was delusional from the pain medication. Seconds later, she peeked, but the view hadn’t changed. Her stomach fluttered.
Releasing the drapes, she turned toward the bed. Deems hadn’t stirred. His chest rose and fell with each easy breath, and he looked so peaceful. Could they be in the same building? But really now, how many copper-tiled church steeples rose in Manhattan?
Her thoughts collided. Rubbing her forehead, she willed her headache to ease. Not like she expected the ache to miraculously disappear, but being confused and bewildered only added to the tension. She tiptoed from the bedroom and entered a wide hall. The way led to an open space, wider and longer than a baseball diamond. A combination living room, dining room, entertainment center, and kitchen made for one gigantic room. The layout was similar to the Stewarts’ but on a much-larger scale.
The appliances’ digital displays provided enough illumination to see, and she spotted her basket of Granny Smith apples on the kitchen counter. With a cracked jaw, apples were definitely off the menu for a while.
In the living room, another set of windows drew her. The floor-to-ceiling draperies were fully retracted to reveal a magnificent view of Central Park and lampposts lighting the asphalt walkways. From this height and in the predawn light, the city took on an enchanted look, beautiful in its own way. She half-expected to see little fairies dancing on the grass.
For the first time since arriving in New York, she had the strongest desire to stay put and not think of the past or future. Between the panoramic setting through the windows combined with the size of his condo, she wanted to enjoy the moment for however long it lasted. If Deems walked into the room and asked her to stay, he’d hear her say “yes” without a second of hesitation. Then, of course, he’d drop from a faint.
“Lauren?”
Holy shit, he really did walk in. She turned to see him wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. His hair was mussed and chest bare, but damn if he didn’t look sexy as hell. “You live here?”
“Yes.” With both hands, he rubbed his eyes while pulling down on his face in a scrub. “I hadn’t meant to show you so soon, but you can’t return to the Stewarts’ place.” Dropping his hands to his sides, he met her gaze. “I hated keeping the secret, Lauren.”
Something emptied inside her. She wasn’t sure what. Another man hiding a secret, she supposed. Were all men genetically programmed to be so mysterious? Maybe they harbored a superiority complex that warned them not to be honest. Turning away, she stared out the window. “All this time, we’ve been in the same building.” Gut clenched, she faced him. “Why were you afraid to tell me?”
“I had my reasons.”
Typical male response. They always had their reasons, right or wrong. Her gaze fell onto the far left wall where a metal spiral staircase caught her eye. At the bottom was a lit Exit sign over a door. She followed the spiral upward to another door and pointed. “Where’s that go?”
“To the roof.”
The roof? That meant…ohmygod! Her heart rate skyrocketed. “We’re in the penthouse? But you told me you lived in a company-paid condo.” More secrets. What was this, his tell-the-truth time? She licked a pair of dry lips. “You must be a damn good employee.”
“I have one of the best territories in the world, Lauren.” Lips tight, he crossed his arms over his bare chest and meandered across the carpet. “I don’t tell too many women. I never know if they love me or the money.”
“You can’t hide the fact you earn a decent income, Deems. Your expensive suits are a dead giveaway.” She wandered away from the windows toward the art work on the walls. Rembrandt, Picasso, and van Gogh. Holy crap. The crème de la crème. She swallowed hard. “Okay, so you have fantastic paintings, live in a company condo, and have a limo at your disposal. You were afraid to tell me, because women notoriously latch onto a man with money, and I’m a woman who is flat broke.” Turning toward him, she gave a half-smile. “I understand, Deems.”
He approached the windows and placed his hands on his hips while staring out over Central Park. His silhouette against the predawn light with his back straight and legs slightly apart gave her the impression of a man who alone created the City of New York. Her father had the same stance whenever he stood on the high hill and surveyed his orchards.
“I own High-Rise International, Lauren.” He shot her a quick glance.
What—wait! Something was wrong with her hearing. Maybe the blow to her head interfered with her auditory sensors. She cleared her throat. “According to the Internet, High-Rise is privately owned.” Her gut twisted. “Privately owned by you?”
“Correct.”
Every muscle in her body froze. He wasn’t just a man with a great job. Hell, he owned a company worth billions. How could he possibly be attracted to a woman struggling to make ends meet? Too stunned to move, she stared.
He ran his hands through his already mussed hair and wandered away from the window. “I rarely let a woman into my world anymore, Lauren. Far too many are self-centered and want nothing more than an easy life.” Gaze intense, he approached. “You’re the first woman I’ve met with substance. You work hard and depend on no one.” He took her good hand in his and smiled. “I’m hopelessly in love with you, Lauren Howell. I don’t give a damn if you spend every penny I have.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re in love with me?” She choked on her own saliva, coughed, gasped, and stumbled toward the sofa. His hand reached, but she waved him away. Like a blind woman feeling her way, she patted the sofa’s armrest and flopped onto the end cushion. Garbled thoughts clouded her brain, and she struggled to make sense out of something incomprehensible. She met his gaze. “Who are you?”
“A wealthy man in love for the first time in my life.”
No…hell. Was he for real? Maybe she was still asleep and having a great dream. But his face was so serious. How could she not believe him? She stifled a sob. “You’ve been dating a woman with absolutely no money, Deems. I can’t even pay the hospital bill.”
“I’ve already settled the bill.” He slipped onto the sofa beside her and cupped her knee. “I wanted our relationship to build on its own, Lauren. You stressed a friendship, but we both realize we’ve become much more.” With a finger touch, he lifted her chin to force her gaze to meet his. “Stay in New York with me.”
Oh, God, now what? Ten minutes ago, she’d have said yes. He was the answer to all her prayers, and she loved him so much. She’d be out of her mind to refuse a lifestyle of luxury. But what kind of lifestyle? A rich man’s mistress? Any normal woman would jump into his arms and kiss him senseless. But not Lauren Howell. She wasn’t one to sit around and polish her nails. “I’ll have to think about this piece of news, Deems. You threw an awful lot at me all at once.” She stroked his cheek, and stubbles tickled her fingertips. “I’m not sure I can handle this city as a steady diet.” With a heavy heart, she dropped her hands into her lap and stared at her splinted pinkie. “These months with Antonio have been hard. Every day, I feel like the walls are closing in, and I can’t breathe.”
He frowned, causing a deep crease at the bridge of his nose. “I already told you I can’t move the company.”
She brushed her palm along his thigh. “I understand, really, I do, but the country is in my blood. Maybe if you came home with me—”
Lips pinched, he shook his head. “Out of the question.”
“Not even to visit my folks?” Brows high, she retracted her hand.
Scowling, he drummed his fingers on his knees. “At the moment, I don’t see the need.”
He answered her question about marriage. He wasn’t interested, and she sure as hell wouldn’t mention the subject. “Okay, then, let me think about your offer.” She stood.
“Lauren?”
One brow cocked, she met his gaze.
“You never said you loved me back.” He shifted on the sofa cushion, his gaze scanning her face. “Do you?”
She brushed a lock of his hair to the side. “I love you
more than you imagine, Deems, more than any man before you.”
With a satisfied nod, he slapped his knees and stood while sweeping under her legs to lift her into his arms. “That’s all that matters. Back to bed.”
She threw a thumb over her shoulder toward the windows. “The sun’s almost above the horizon.”
“Yeah, well, to a country girl, the approaching daylight might mean something, but to me, I’ve still an hour of sleep left, and I’d like to spend the time holding you. Besides—”
She placed a finger to his lips. “The doctor—”
“I know what the doctor said. No sex for two weeks since such an activity has a tendency to raise blood pressure. I’ll live with the disappointment, even if you leave New York without us having another chance to make love. I’m hoping you’ll stay.”
He entered the bedroom and slipped her onto the bed. Grateful for the softness against her aching body, she threw the covers onto her legs. Without moving, he stared down, his need obvious through his boxer shorts.
“I can offer you so much, Lauren.”
Except what she desired the most—marriage and a family. She would not be a rich man’s mistress, but the words stuck in her throat. I must be a friggin’ idiot.
Chapter Twenty-Five
After a long soak in a whirlpool tub, Lauren toweled herself and actually felt human again, despite looking in the mirror to see a woman used as a punching bag. The ache in her head and jaw had eased, and one eye was no longer half-shut from swollen tissue, but the knuckles on both hands were the problem. Her fingers swelled with excess fluid, and the stiffness made normal activities impossible. Like holding a bar of soap. Or closing the zipper to her jeans. The pinkie splint hadn’t improved matters. Hell, her entire hand could be splinted with what use her fingers provided.
Earlier, Deems ran to the fourth floor for some of her belongings. While there, he talked to the head of maintenance who received clearance from the NYPD. Repairs to the condo were scheduled to begin immediately. Deems invited her to spend the next few days with him, and of course, she accepted. What woman wouldn’t love to live temporarily like a queen? This week, her classes would conclude. Then, in two weeks, the Stewarts would return, and she’d be on her way home to put her life back in order. And missing Deems terribly.