“You like?” the mayor asked.
“Yes, it’s so vibrant. Who makes it?”
He beamed. “It’s from our own Geribi Shop in Deruta. Quite popular, even in your own country.”
The olives, calamari and oysters were delicious, yet Jillian still fought to stifle a yawn. She’d had a long and eventful day. Her eyelids could barely stay open.
A vegetable soup was placed in front of her. Stifling a smile, she thought of the rerun of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman when the coach drowned in his soup. If her head began to fall, would Blake notice in time to rescue her? She pressed the red cloth napkin to her lips to stifle a giggle.
Blake shot her an inquisitive look. “Is everything all right?”
The mayor and everyone else at the table trained their eyes on her. Nothing like being the center of attention. “Everything is just wonderful. I can’t get over the beauty of this palace, or, for that matter, Venice itself,” she said.
Not to be outdone, Maxine chimed in. “Venice is the most fabulous place in the world. If I could, I’d spend my entire life here.”
That was laying it on a bit thick, yet the mayor, seeming not to notice, beamed a huge smile. “I’m honored that you charming signorinas find my city to your liking. Can I convince you to stay?”
“One of them will stay elsewhere with me,” Troy said, in a not-so-friendly voice.
The mayor raised his eyebrows. “Of course, you’re the billionaire, the prize of the contest. How could I forget?”
He turned and said something to Blake in Italian. They both chuckled. Troy frowned, apparently believing he was the object of their ridicule. He probably was.
Jillian stifled another smile and lifted a spoonful of rum-drizzled ice cream to her lips.
From across the table, Blake’s cell phone rang. He grabbed it off his waist band, checked the number and frowned. “I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BLAKE FLIPPED OPEN the phone. “It better be important.”
If this was another sob story from his father about the woes of an exalted star, he’d hang up.
“It’s serious, Blake,” Darryl said.
He’d never heard that tone in his father’s voice. Cold dread washed over Blake. “What’s the matter?”
“Your mother’s had a seizure. It doesn’t look good. She’s in critical condition at Santa Monica Hospital.”
The words struck a blow in Blake’s gut. He closed his eyes tight to ward off the pain. He could barely get the words out, “I’ll catch the first plane.”
Paralyzed, he broke the connection. Where was he? He glanced around stupidly, trying to get his bearings. Trappings of bygone wealth stared back at him, a grim reminder of generations of people that had come and gone. A shiver of apprehension raced up and down his spine. Would he see his mother alive again?
Damn it, he must get out. Luanne had cracked under the pressure, so he was sans an assistant again. He’d have to make his own arrangements.
Before he could return to the room, somehow Jillian, her inner radar tuned, stood beside him. “Is everything all right?”
“No. I need a flight out. My mother’s in bad shape.”
“Maybe the mayor can help. Stay here. I’ll ask him.”
A few minutes later, Mayor Lorenzo appeared, with an aide trotting beside him. He placed his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “Go to your Mama and Godspeed. My man will take you to the airport.”
“Thanks,” Blake said, through the dense fog clouding his brain.
Where his family was concerned, he never could think straight. How could he care so much for a woman who’d never paid him any attention? He didn’t know why, but he did. None of his mother’s failings mattered at the moment. Bottom line was he had to get to her and tell her he loved her.
The hard shell he’d cultivated since childhood cracked. He was just as bad as Darryl, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want Barbara to die. It might be sentimental, but he wanted another chance to win the love he’d missed.
“Good luck, Blake. Don’t worry about us. I’ll handle everything here,” Jillian said, eyes dark with sympathy.
“I appreciate it,” Blake said. He climbed into the waiting vapora, and sped off into the night and the unknown.
THOUGH ALL FLIGHTS HAD BEEN BOOKED, somehow the mayor had arranged non-stop passage for Blake to the States. On board the 747, Blake stared out the window seeing nothing, urging the plane to fly faster over the waters.
This had been a corker of a day. First he’d snatched Jillian from the jaws of hell and now his mother’s life hung in the balance. He’d thought he was strong, but was fast discovering he was just as human as the next man. His temples throbbed. His stomach churned with nausea. His frailties took second place. What mattered was making it back in time.
Blake didn’t doze once during the fourteen hour trip, then stood first in line to exit. At the terminal, he grabbed a waiting taxi. Thank goodness the paparazzi had not caught on yet. No doubt the vultures would gather en masse as soon as they heard of his mother’s condition. Illness and death raised television ratings and sold newspapers. There was no such thing as anonymity for a star of Barbara Branton’s magnitude. It was only a matter of time before news leaked out of her condition.
He could deal with the media. Harder to deal with was what he might find inside the Santa Monica Hospital. He took a deep breath and swung open the door. Feeling like a lost boy, he glanced around in confusion. He didn’t know the first thing about hospitals. Where the hell was he supposed to go?
He approached the information desk where an elderly woman in a white uniform sat before a switchboard. “Where’s critical care?”
She answered in a halting voice, taking forever to give him the information.
A glimpse of fluorescent lights and shiny linoleum floors flashed by as he rushed into the elevator and pressed the fourth floor button. At the critical care unit, at the request of the on duty nurse, he stated his relationship to the patient, and was finally shown into the tiny glass enclosed room where his mother lay.
Inside, all was quiet except for the tick of a machine and the swish of oxygen carried through the tubes under Barbara Branton’s nose. Darryl stood to one side of his wife, holding her hand. Her other hand was attached to an IV.
Monitors, tubes and other medical paraphernalia crowded the cramped quarters. It didn’t look real to Blake—more like the set of a hospital soap opera. As befitting such a great star, his mother lay center stage, playing the lead role.
“How is she?” Blake asked, inching closer.
“Not good.”
Darryl released his hold on his wife’s hand and turned toward his son. His face held a shell-shocked look, his eyes blank and sunken, his hair limp. He looked like a patient himself.
Blake snuck a look at the woman in the bed, then quickly glanced away. That couldn’t be his mother gasping for air, drained and weak, with a face as blank as a sheet of paper.
The Barbara Branton he knew was vibrant and colorful, with sparkling blue eyes and glowing cheeks.
He looked again. Their eyes caught. She crooked a finger at him.
This was it. Here was his chance. He better not blow it.
“Dad, why don’t you sit down? You need to rest.” Blake motioned to the chair in back of him.
Darryl nodded and sank down with a sigh.
Blake inched closer to the bed and bent over it. “Hi, Mom, I’m here,” he said, stating the obvious. He placed his arms gently around his mother’s shoulders and gave her a brief hug.
A look of relief crossed her face. “My baby, I’m so glad you came.”
His mind registered the strangeness of her response as he groped for a way to handle the foreign situation. Visiting a patient in the hospital was not a part of his everyday routine. It felt unusual to be here at all, much less see his indomitable mother lying in such a feeble state.
“Of course I’m here. You’re my mother,” he said, again stati
ng the obvious.
“But your television show. What about that?”
“It’s not important,” he said.
His words were surprisingly true. What he’d slaved on for so long now became a distant blur. What were fame and fortune in the face of mortality?
Fierceness shone in his mother’s eyes. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve earned success. Don’t say it’s not important.”
She’d noticed. He’d thought she didn’t give a damn about him or his life, but all along she must have kept track. Tears welled in his eyes, clouding his vision. A sad, sweet joy coursed through him. He’d have died to hear those words coming from her lips before. Now she might die after uttering them. There was a twisted irony in there somewhere.
Through the confusion, something buried deep in his subconscious rose and broke free. An indisputable fact became achingly clear. “I love you, Mom,” he said, and meant it.
He’d always loved her. Believing that his love was not reciprocated, he’d fought the feeling and even gone so far as to deny it. He could do so no longer. She was his mother, damn it. He’d come out of her body. For that alone he was grateful.
Had she heard his declaration? Her eyes were closed and her breathing heavy. She appeared to be sleeping or half conscious.
Blake sighed. It was too late. She’d never realize how he felt. He started to pull away when she whispered, “Wait.”
“Okay,” he said, awkwardly hanging over the bed to listen.
“If anything happens, take care of Darryl. He’ll need you,” she said.
Chills raced up and down his spine. The famous Barbara Branton would not make such a request without reason. Something shifted in Blake’s brain. All along, he’d thought Darryl was only a lapdog or gopher for his mother. Now it appeared she actually loved him. Or did death knocking on her door have something to do with her present attitude?
“Don’t worry. Dad won’t need me. You’ll be up again in no time and smiling for the cameras. You’ll see.”
He wouldn’t accept it any other way, though the look in her eyes said otherwise.
“I’m so tired. I don’t think I can make it.”
“Don’t say that. You’ve got a strong will, and mustn’t give up. If not for yourself, think of Darryl. Do it for him. It would kill him if you left. He loves you. You’re his life. You have to stick around.”
She flashed Blake a strange look. Through the medication and pain, the wheels turned. She knew. It wasn’t only for his father he was begging. It all couldn’t end this way, not without getting a chance to know her. There was too much unfinished business to clear up.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been a very good mother,” she said, with a forced smile.
“No one’s perfect. Just get well. That’s all I ask,” Blake said.
Footsteps sounded behind Blake. He turned to see a man in a white coat motion to Darryl. “I’m Dr. McCarthy. You’re the husband, right? Can I see you in the hallway?”
Darryl nodded, groping for the back of the chair as he rose. Whatever the doctor was about to say couldn’t be pleasant. Blake would like to stand beside his father to help him get through the ordeal, but what about Barbara? She needed him. He better stay with her.
Hope and fear shone in Darryl’s eyes when he returned to stand by the bed. He looked down tenderly at his wife, who appeared to be sleeping, then turned to Blake. “Her carotid artery’s eighty-five percent blocked. She’s got a blood clot. She needs surgery yesterday.”
“How dangerous is it?” Blake asked.
“She could die right on the operating table, or recover and return to normal.”
“What are the odds?”
“Fifty-fifty.”
“Operate. I’ll take the chance,” Blake’s mother whispered.
Again she’d fooled them. Blake had thought she was out, but she’d been listening to every word. It was too late to sugarcoat the situation. She’d made her decision. It was her body and her right.
“Let’s get it over with,” she said from the bed.
Blake pressed the call button. In a few minutes, the nurse appeared. “Tell Dr. McCarthy to scrub,” he said.
She nodded and swished away. Half an hour dragged by as they waited for the next step. Blake noticed more nurses passing in the hall. Had they all been around when he came in? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.
Looking down at his mother, he tried to memorize every feature. It didn’t help to remind himself he could watch her any time on the screen. If she didn’t make it, seeing her seem so full of life, though not alive, would hurt all the more.
Damn, he felt helpless. If only he could do something, anything.
It was time to pray.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHEN JILLIAN STEPPED off the plane in LA, she was greeted by a swarm of reporters.
“Veronica, what do you know about Barbara Branton?” one asked, sticking a microphone in her face.
“Not as much as you.”
Where was the the security guard who’d been beside her a moment ago? The man must have been swallowed by the mob.
“I know you’ve got an in, so give,” another reporter said.
“I don’t know a thing.” She glanced away.
Not to be put off, he stepped in front of her again. “Come on, come clean. We know about you and the producer. What’s the latest?”
She’d guessed it might come, yet she was still unprepared. She stared at the reporter in horrified revulsion as her mind processed his words.
During the plane ride back, she kept thinking of what Blake had to be going through. Memories of the last days spent with her own mother flashed through her mind, filling her with grief. She’d do anything to spare Blake the same agony, but had no way to stop it.
Now the situation had escalated. Sadly, it appeared the callous Nadia had chosen this moment to release her venom. How cruel could she be? Blake’s mother could die any moment, yet all the model cared about was grabbing a chunk of publicity.
Jillian turned to the reporter. “You should be ashamed of yourself. A woman the world loves dearly lies close to death. She deserves respect.”
The man’s eyes widened. A flicker of admiration shone in them before he backed off.
The security men caught up. They flanked each side of Jillian, as, head bent, she forged ahead into the waiting limousine. The bench seats inside were spacious, but Maxine and Troy already sat almost on top of each other. Jillian sat across from them. The two security men clambered in next to her.
The limo sped from the airport and onto the expressway. Behind it, other engines revved. Through the back window she made out a line of cars, like a procession, following them. Jillian bit her lip. The interrogation was not over.
“It’s too bad about Barbara Branton. I just love her movies,” Maxine said, breaking the silence.
“The woman is hot, but not as hot as you, babe,” Troy said.
Maxine smirked and thrust her chest out further.
Troy’s response was to lean over and devour her mouth. His hand strayed from her waist upward. Maxine did not resist his groping fingers. It didn’t seem to bother either of them that Jillian and the security guards were also present.
When Troy had had his fill, he winked at Jillian.
She would not respond to such childishness. She turned away and stared ahead. Some men never grew up.
“I wonder what will happen with the show. I’ll die if I can’t go to Paris,” Maxine said.
“Why not have Troy take you there?” Jillian said, eyebrows lifted.
Maxine shot the billionaire an assessing look. Troy frowned. “No need for that. Caldwell’s obsessed. He’ll get the show in, no matter what.”
Well, well. Mr. Billionaire was not leaping at the chance of escorting the buxom blonde to Paris under his own power. Perhaps his attraction to Ms. 44D was not as deep as he let on.
Jillian thrust her chin out. “If Blake can’t make it by Saturday, the show will g
o on. He’s already told us what to do and we have the scripts.”
“You can’t be serious. How can we do it without him?” Maxine wailed.
“We’ll manage, one step at a time. First, we’ll need the tickets, the hotel information and the camera crew. We’ll get them, even if I have to go to the president of Mecca.”
“And the fashion designers? How do we deal with them?”
“I don’t see why they wouldn’t go ahead. The publicity’s already out. Everything’s ordered and set. Besides, the studio needs the money from the show,” Jillian said.
“She’s right, Maxine. And I, for one am looking forward to watching the two of you model those hot European outfits.”
“I’ll make sure you get your wish,” Jillian said to Troy, as if he were a small boy asking for an ice cream cone.
Apparently satisfied, Maxine smiled widely. “Oh, good. I really want to see Paris. It’s so romantic.”
Troy flashed Jillian a fevered look. “Veronica’s right. The three of us will do fine on our own without that nosy producer butting in. We’ll give everyone a show they won’t forget.”
“The cameras won’t shoot anything X-rated,” Jillian said.
“You are a tease,” Troy said.
When would she learn not to speak her mind? Again he thought she was coming on to him. What she didn’t understand was how a person like Troy could have managed to accrue such a huge fortune. Had he inherited it?
Maxine chatted merrily along, with Troy cutting in with quips. Jillian did her best to ignore them. She had more important things to think about, such as the state of Barbara Branton’s health.
Also, how was Blake holding up?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AT HOME, THOUGH JET LEG had set in and her eyes could barely focus, Jillian forced herself to stay up late to watch the evening news for word of Blake’s mother. Since no world crisis du jour had materialized, Barbara Branton’s hospitalization became the lead story.
The announcer began. “We have breaking news. Screen darling, Barbara Branton, lies close to death in a Santa Monica Hospital. At this moment, she’s undergoing emergency surgery. Doctors say she has only a fifty-fifty chance of survival. The country is saddened by this turn of events. The question is, will we lose another precious icon or will she miraculously pull through?”
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