“I love you, too, honey.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE WAS wiping his eyes as he came out into the corridor, and didn’t see her lurking a few yards away. Numbly, Camille watched as he turned the corner to the elevators.
Part of her wanted to run after him, and comfort him. He didn’t strike her as a man easily given to tears and her heart broke a little at the sadness draped over him like a shroud. But another part of her wanted to shriek in anguish because, without meaning to, she’d overheard too much.
I hate to leave her alone….
I’ll sit with your wife….
I love you, too, honey….
He’d told her he was divorced, and she’d believed him. He’d told her the reason he went to the city was that he had business there, and she’d believed that, as well.
He’d come from his sick wife’s bedside and within the hour made love to her. She’d rolled around without a stitch of clothing on, in the sand down by the river, and let him touch her all over. Let him have sex.
She’d listened to him lecture her about adopting a baby when her marriage was on the skids, and been grateful when he’d forgiven her enough to seduce her a second time.
She’d as good as told her parents never to darken her doorstep again, unless they were prepared to take back all the horrible things they’d said about him. She’d invited him into her home, introduced him to her son.
She’d let him make a fool of her, over and over again, and if she had a grain of sense, she’d go home to Jeremy and forget she’d ever met a man called Michael D’Alessandro. She was obviously much better suited to being a mother than she was a lover.
But, like an open wound begging for attention, curiosity pulled at her, drawing her toward the window in the door through which he’d just left. What was she like, that woman on the other side whose adulterous husband had betrayed her all the time he was telling her he loved her? Why was she in a San Francisco hospital? They had hospitals up there in Canada, didn’t they? And doctors?
Camille stole closer, intending to sneak a look through the pane of glass when suddenly the door swung open and a nurse came out carrying a water carafe. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, but it’s okay if you want to go in for a visit while I’m gone,” she said, hurrying past. “She’s sleeping a lot now, but talk to her anyway. Let her know you’re there. We think it helps.”
She ought not to go in. It wasn’t any of her business. But though her conscience told her that, Camille’s feet had a mind of their own and dragged her inexorably over the threshold and into the room.
She was aware of nothing but the scent of lilies in the air, and the figure lying so motionless on the bed that, for one horrified moment, she thought the woman was dead. Was backing stealthily toward the door, in fact, when the body gave a spasmodic twitch and gasped, “Mike?”
Camille froze, torn between pity and an irrational terror which urged her to flee the scene. But the woman—Mrs. D’Alessandro—seemed so distressed that in the end, pity won the day. Approaching the foot of the bed, Camille said, “He stepped out for a minute. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Thirsty,” the poor thing managed, rolling her head from side to side.
A tumbler of chipped ice stood on a nearby table. Dropping her bag on a chair, Camille took a tissue from the box by the sink and tipped several slivers of ice into it. “Here,” she said, turning the poor, ravaged face toward her so that she could slip the melting ice between the dry, colorless lips. “This will help.”
Her eyes were closed. The skin was drawn so tautly over her features that they’d shrunk to the size of a child’s. But she’d been a beauty in her day, the high cheekbones and delicate jaw attested to that, and she’d been a redhead although little was left of her hair.
She was without question a stranger, her body wasted by disease almost to nothing, yet looking at her, Camille was haunted by a sense of familiarity. “Who is it that you remind me of?” she said softly, more to prod her own memory than because she expected a reply.
But as if she were trying to answer, his wife spoke again, an incoherent muttering this time, and picked weakly at the bedcovers as though searching for something—a slight movement only, but enough to dislodge what appeared to be colorful postcards hidden by a fold in the sheet. They slid between the guard rails and landed facedown on the floor under the chair.
Realizing she’d lost them, she groped for a handhold and tried to sit up, but the effort exhausted her. “My baby!” she cried on a thin wail of distress, sinking back against the pillows.
Camille’s heart swelled with fresh pity. Oh, how frail and thin she was, how transparent her skin! “Please, Mrs. D’Alessandro, don’t upset yourself,” she begged, scooting down and reaching under the chair. “Your postcards are right here. I’ll get them for you.”
But they weren’t postcards at all. They were photographs. Of Jeremy gleefully kicking a football on the lawn in front of her house. Of Jeremy, all dark tousled hair and big brown eyes, posing proudly beside his new red roadster.
“What on earth…?” Hands shaking, Camille picked up the snapshots, telling herself there was a logical explanation for finding them in that stark little hospital room. But the reasons tumbling through her mind made no sense. Why would a man bring pictures of another woman’s child to his dying wife’s bedside, and why would that poor soul think they were of her baby—unless…?
Time slowed, lumbered back nearly four years, and froze in horrifying detail to the last time Camille had been in a hospital.
December the eleventh, two days after Jeremy was born. She’d dressed him in a pale blue terry-cloth sleeper and a white hooded jacket she’d knitted herself. He’d looked adorable.
“We’ll take good care of him,” she’d promised his pretty auburn-haired birth mother.
“I know you will,” Rita Osborne had said, tucking the envelope Todd have given her into her purse. “He’ll have a much better life with you.”
Stricken, Camille stared at the photographs and flinched at the clammy dread of certainty closing over her.
“Please…!” Full of yearning and heartbreak, the entreaty floated on a wilting breath from the high bed.
As slowly as if she were a hundred years old, Camille clutched the arm of the chair and pried herself upright. Michael D’Alessandro’s dying wife was watching her, her huge, dark eyes wide open and desperate. And Camille knew then what it was that made the woman look so familiar when everything else about her had changed.
The face and body might be ravaged beyond recognition by illness, but the eyes—dear God, the eyes were a replica of Jeremy’s. The resemblance was unmistakable. Indisputable.
“Rita?” she gasped, recognition flooding through her just before the floor swam up to meet her, and a world grown suddenly menacing faded into black.
She came to on a gurney in some sort of supply room lined with white cabinets. Her forehead throbbed and a nurse was taking her pulse. “Ugh!” she groaned, squinting against the bright overhead light. “What happened?”
“You fainted,” the nurse said, swatting Camille’s hand away when she reached up to investigate the weight on her forehead. “Don’t mess with the icepack, sweetie. It’s there to help reduce the swelling. You took quite a dive and smacked your head on the side of the bed. Good thing we heard the racket, or you’d still be lying on the floor.”
“I never faint,” she said, with feeble indignation.
“That’s what they all say, until it hits home.”
“It?” She wished the room would stop spinning. Wished someone would tell her how and why she was there to begin with.
The nurse stroked her cheek kindly. “Watching a loved one die takes a terrible toll on family and friends.”
At that, everything came rushing back in ghastly detail, and for a moment Camille was afraid she might pass out again. But she couldn’t afford the luxury. “I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, struggling to sit u
p. “I need to be with my little boy.”
“You’re in no shape to be going anywhere just yet.”
“You don’t understand. I have to go to him.” Quickly, before Michael D’Alessandro beat her to it.
“Not a chance, sweetie. Not until we contact someone to come and get you.”
“I don’t need anyone. I have my car here and can drive myself home.”
“Uh-uh!” The nurse shook her head. “There’s no way you’re getting behind the wheel of a car in your condition. I’ll bring in a phone and you can call your husband or a friend to come and pick you up. Hopefully, by the time he gets here, you’ll be able to stand up under your own steam without keeling over. Meantime, stay put.”
“You don’t understand,” Camille began again, but she was talking to an empty room. The nurse had bustled out, certain her word was law and no one would dare thwart it.
Much she knew! No one was going to keep Camille there against her will, not when Michael D’Alessandro was on the loose with criminal intent in mind! She might have hit her head when she fainted, but her brain still worked well enough for her to figure out what he was after.
He wanted Jeremy. Her son—his son!—was all he’d ever wanted, and all the rest—the compliments, the kisses, the sex—had been nothing but a load of calculated hooey designed to distract her from his real agenda.
“Well, over my dead body!” she muttered, flinging aside the icepack.
The door swung open and rubber-soled shoes whispered across the floor. “Stubborn, aren’t you?” the nurse remarked, sizing up the situation. “What’s it going to take to convince you I know best—another crack on the head?”
“I’m in a hurry.”
The nurse pursed her lips and shrugged. “Okay. Feel free to get up and leave.”
“Finally!” Heaving a sigh of relief, Camille sat up and swung her legs over the side of the gurney.
Big mistake! The walls tilted, the overhead light swung crazily, and what her stomach was doing didn’t bear thinking about. Defeated, she fell back against the pillow.
“Ex…actly!” Cordless telephone flat on her hand, the nurse stood sentinel, a ruthless prison guard disguised as a ministering angel. “Ready to make that call now?”
Refusing to give in to the tears of panic stretching her control to the limit because she knew, once she started crying, she’d never stop, Camille considered the only two options open. She could call her parents, confident that regardless of the harsh words she’d flung at them, they’d rush to her aid, or she could call Fran.
The nurse tapped her foot impatiently. “Well, sweetie, what’s it going to be?”
She had a blinding headache, her stomach was queasy, and her life was a mess, all of which, Camille decided, left her with only one real option. Meekly, she took the phone and dialed Fran’s number. At least she wouldn’t say “I told you so.”
Nor did she waste time asking questions. Like the good friend she was, she listened to Camille’s brief explanation and said only, “Sit tight. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“You’ll be feeling more like yourself by then,” the nurse said, when Camille relayed the message. “Keep the icepack in place, and I’ll bring you some hot tea.”
In fact, it was nearly an hour before Fran showed up. “The parking’s the pits at this hour,” she explained. “Then I had trouble finding this room. Sorry, Camille. I know you must be itching to get out of here, but don’t worry about Jeremy. I phoned Nori and told her to bring him over to our place for dinner. I didn’t think you’d feel up to cooking, so Adam’s making barbecued ribs for all of us.”
Light-headed again, but from relief this time, Camille eased her feet into her shoes and collected her handbag and jacket from the counter. Apart from being a bit weak at the knees, she felt almost normal again.
“Keep an eye on her,” the nurse advised Fran, ushering them out of the supply room. “She’s been checked over by one of our staff doctors and doesn’t seem to have suffered any serious concussion, but she did take quite a fall and shouldn’t be left alone tonight. Here’s a list of things to watch for. If you have any concerns, call her family doctor.”
“Will do.” Fran tucked the sheet of paper into her purse and turned to Camille. “Ready to go?”
She’d been ready for well over an hour, the need to see her son growing more urgent with each passing second. Not until she could hold his warm, solid little body in her arms and see for herself that he was safe, would she be able to relax. Without waiting for Fran, she started down the corridor, certain there was nothing in the world that could stop her headlong rush to freedom.
Nothing, that was, except finding herself in the middle of another nightmare. As she drew level with Rita Osborne’s room, the door opened and Michael came out looking absolutely shattered.
There was no avoiding him, and no pretending he hadn’t seen her, so she stood her ground and drew on the last reserves of her pride to get her past this final hurdle. “Hello, Michael,” she said.
He stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost, then made a visible effort to pull himself together. “What the devil are you doing here, Camille?”
“I came to see Rita,” she said. “Your wife, remember?”
Leaning against the wall, he dragged a weary hand over his face and try though she might to harden her heart, Camille couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. He stared at his feet a moment, then lifted his gaze to her face. His blue eyes were bruised dark blue-black with pain and grief. “I can’t deal with you right now,” he said bleakly. “It’ll have to wait.”
Her pity evaporated in less time than it took to blink. He was giving her the brush-off, after all his duplicity? “I can’t deal with you at all,” she replied, the words chipping out of her mouth as hard as granite. “Not now, not ever.”
Fran caught up to her just in time to hear her remark, took one look at her face, another at Michael’s, and said, “I don’t pretend to understand what’s going down between the two of you, but I do suggest that this is not the place to sort it out. Michael, you look very upset. If you need someone to talk to, you know where to reach us. Camille, we’re leaving. Now.”
And with that she strong-armed Camille the rest of the way down the hall and around the corner to the elevators.
Whenever Camille had needed her, Fran had always been there, loyal and steadfast to the end, but patience wasn’t her strongest suit. All the way down to the main floor and out to where she’d left the car, she kept her peace, but her curiosity was nearing boiling point. Camille knew it but she couldn’t bring herself to confide in her friend. She huddled in the passenger seat, still too dazed with shock to put her thoughts into any sort of order, let alone share them, even with someone as sympathetic as she knew Fran would be.
They were approaching the Bay Bridge when Fran finally broke the silence. “Okay, Camille, if you’re not going to volunteer, I’m going to pry. I didn’t raise a peep when you phoned to say you were at St. Mary’s and needed a ride home. I simply jumped in my car and came racing to your rescue. The least you can do is explain why. We can skip over the fact that you fainted for no apparent reason and now have a lump on your forehead that leaves you looking a bit like a unicorn, and go straight to the reason you were ready to rip Michael’s throat out in full view of hospital staff. What the hell’s got you in such a state?”
Camille sifted through all the possible answers: he’s married; he’s a liar; he’s an adulterer. But in the end, only one really mattered. “He’s Jeremy’s father.”
Fran swerved and narrowly missed sideswiping a car in the next lane. “That’s insane!”
“But true, nevertheless. He’s married to Rita Osborne. He’s the abusive husband who abandoned her when she was pregnant.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. I caught him red-handed playing the devoted husband to his dying wife.” She stared out of the window, the wheels of her mind spinning frantically. “Fran,
I need to ask another favor.”
“Well, sure.” She sounded as if she’d been poleaxed. “Ask away.”
“Will you please let Nori and Jeremy stay at your cottage in Bodega Bay for a few days?”
“Camille, all three of you can stay there for as long as you like, you know that.”
“I have to stay at home. That’s where he’ll come looking.”
“He? You mean, Michael?”
“Who else? The only reason he came here to begin with was to find his son. Now that he has, it’s pretty obvious what his next move will be.”
“He doesn’t have a snowball’s hope in hell of ever getting his hands on Jeremy, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” she said, recalling how persistently he’d quizzed her on the details leading up to Jeremy’s adoption, and how artlessly she’d given him the ammunition he’d so obviously been seeking.
There might be, he’d said, that night by the river when she’d told him there was no way Rita Osborne’s delinquent husband could ever take Jeremy away from her. Given the fact that your husband opted out of the responsibilities he deliberately undertook, a court might look very favorably on a natural father’s claim to his blood child.
“You’ve got every reason to be furious with him, Camille, I grant you that,” Fran said, “but don’t let your imagination run wild. He might have a lot to answer for, but he doesn’t strike me as a kidnapper.”
Never trust a stranger, Camille. You’re asking for trouble if you do….
“He wants Jeremy, Fran. I know that for a fact.”
Fran flung her a startled look. “You mean he actually came out and admitted as much?”
“Yes. I just didn’t realize it until now. But everything he’s said and done since he first came to town points to that. The evidence was there all the time, if only I’d known what to look for. Instead, I let myself be taken in by his smile and his kisses. I even….”
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