by Nora Roberts
thought you were.”
“You just did.” He kissed her again, then began tugging up her shirt.
“Sam—”
“I suddenly find myself with all this energy—incredible energy. Let me show you.” He slid back into the chair, taking her with him.
“Wait a minute.” She laughed, then moaned when his hands began to wander. “Sam, give me a minute.”
“I’ve got hours for you. Hours and hours.”
“Sam.” With one laughing shove, she held him off. “I want to talk to you.”
“Is it going to take long?” He tugged at the waistband of her slacks.
“No.” To stop him, she framed his face with her hands. “I want to tell you how really exceptional you were. I pretended once that I didn’t pay attention to your films, but I have. And you were never better than tonight.”
“Thanks. It means a lot coming from you.”
She took a deep breath, managing to push herself out of the chair. “You put a lot into that part.”
She was leading somewhere. Though he wasn’t sure he’d like the destination, he let her take the lead. “A part’s not worth anything unless you do. Nothing is.”
No, nothing was. “I, ah . . . I almost forget, when we’re like this, who you are. These past few weeks, here, at the ranch, it hasn’t been like being with Sam Weaver in capital letters.”
Puzzled, he rose with her. “Johanna, you’re not going to try to tell me you’re intimidated by actors? You’ve been around the business all your life.”
“All my life,” she murmured. She didn’t want to love him. She didn’t want to love anyone, but most particularly not an actor, a movie star, a household name. The trouble was, she already did. “It’s not a matter of being intimidated, it’s just that it’s been easy to forget you’re not just an ordinary man who I ran into and grew fond of.”
“Fond of,” he repeated, drawing out the phrase. “Well, we’re improving.” He had her by the shoulders. That lazy drawl of a voice could fool you into forgetting how quick he was. “I don’t know what the hell this is about, but we’ll get to it in a minute. Right now, I want you to look at me. Really look at me, Johanna,” he repeated, adding a little shake. “And tell me if you’re in love with me.”
“I never said—”
“No one knows better than I what you’ve never said.” He drew her a little closer, insisting that her eyes stay on his. “I want to hear it now, and it has nothing to do with how I make my living, what the critics say or how much I’m worth at the box office. Do you love me?”
She started to shake her head but simply couldn’t force it to move. How could she lie when he was looking at her, when he was touching her? She drew a deep breath to be certain her voice was calm. “Yes.”
He wanted to take her then, just gather her close and hold on. But he knew that not only did he have to hear the words, she had to say them. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, I love you.”
He looked at her for a long time. She was trembling a little, so he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her forehead. He didn’t know why it was so difficult for her to say.
Not yet. But he was determined to find out.
“That should make things easier.”
“But it doesn’t,” she murmured. “It doesn’t change anything.”
“We’ll talk about it. Let’s sit down.”
She nodded. She didn’t know what there was to say, but there had to be something. Trying to make it seem normal, she started to the front door to lock up for the night. Then she heard the quick report on the evening news.
“Sources report that Carl W. Patterson, respected producer, has suffered a heart attack this evening. Paramedics were summoned to his Beverly Hills estate, which he shares with his fiancée, Toni DuMonde. His condition at this hour remains critical.”
“Johanna.” Sam laid a hand on her arm. She hadn’t gasped or cried out. There were no tears in her eyes. She had simply stopped in her tracks as though she’d run into a wall. “Get your purse. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“What?”
“I’ll drive you.” He switched off the set and went to get her bag himself. “Come on.”
She only nodded and let him lead her out.
***
No one had called her. The oddness of it struck Sam as they rode the elevator up to Cardiac Care. Her father had had a heart attack, and she hadn’t been notified.
The year before, when his mother had broken her ankle in a nasty fall on the ice, he’d received three calls in a matter of hours. One from his sister, another from his father and the last from his mother, telling him that his sister and father were fuss-budgets.
Nonetheless the ankle had worried him enough to have him do some quick scheduling adjustments so that he could make the trip back East. He’d only had thirty-six hours to spare, but it had been time enough to see his mother for himself, sign her cast and put his mind at rest.
And a broken ankle was a far cry from a heart attack.
Johanna was Patterson’s only child, yet she’d had to hear about her father’s illness on the eleven-o’clock news. Even if they weren’t close, as he’d already deduced, they were family. In Sam’s experience, families stuck together in times of crisis.
She’d barely said a word since they’d left the house. He’d tried to comfort her, to offer both hope and support, but she hadn’t responded. It seemed to him that she was just going through the motions, pale, a little dazed, but with the automatic control that had slipped effortlessly back into place. He watched her approach the nurse’s station. Her hands were steady, her voice was calm and unwavering when she spoke.
“Carl Patterson was admitted this evening. They told me downstairs he’s in CCU.”
The nurse—sturdy, mid-forties and used to the night shift—barely glanced up. “I’m sorry, we’re not permitted to give out patient information.”
“He’s my father,” Johanna said flatly.
The nurse looked up. Reporters and the curious used all kinds of ploys to glean information on the famous. She’d already discouraged a few of them that evening. The woman on the other side of the counter didn’t look like a reporter—the nurse prided herself on having a nose for them—but she hadn’t been told to expect family, either. Recognizing doubt, Johanna drew out her wallet and identification.
“I’d like to see him, if that’s possible, and speak with his doctor.”
The nurse felt a stirring of sympathy. Her gaze shifted and locked on Sam. She recognized him, and though seeing him face-to-face would give her something to tell her husband when they passed over the breakfast table, she wasn’t overly impressed. After twenty years of nursing in Beverly Hills she was accustomed to seeing celebrities, often naked, sick and vulnerable. But she did remember reading that Sam Weaver was having a fling with Carl Patterson’s daughter.
“I’ll be happy to page the doctor for you, Miss Patterson. There’s a waiting room down the hall and to the left. Miss DuMonde is already there.”
“Thank you.” She turned and started down, refusing to think past the moment, refusing to think past the action required to get beyond that moment. She heard a bell ding quietly, almost secretively, then the soft slap of crepe-soled shoes.
The panic was gone, that first thunder of panic that had filled her head when she’d heard the news report. Replacing it was the knowledge that she had to put one foot in front of the other and do whatever needed to be done. She was used to doing such things alone.
“Sam, I have no idea how long this might take. Why don’t you go home? I can take a cab back when I’m ready.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” was all he said.
It was enough, more than enough to cause her breath to hitch. She wanted to turn to him, to press her face against his chest. She wanted to be held, to be passive, to let him handle whatever had to be done. Instead, she turned into the waiting room.
“Sam!” Toni’s eyes, already damp,
spilled over. She sprang out of her chair and launched herself into his arms. “Oh, Sam, I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been so frightened. It’s a nightmare. I’m just sick with worry, Sam. I don’t know what I’ll do if Carl dies.”
“Pull yourself together.” Sam led her back to a chair, then lit one of the cigarettes she’d spilled from a pack onto the table. He stuck it between her fingers. “What did the doctor say?”
“I don’t know. He was so technical and grim faced.” She held out a hand to a blond man in a dinner jacket. “I never would have survived this without Jack. He’s been a wall, an absolute wall. Hello, Johanna.” She sniffled into a lacy handkerchief.
“Sam.” Jack Vandear nodded as he patted Toni’s hand. He’d directed two of Patterson’s productions and had run into Sam at least a half-dozen times on the party circuit. “It’s been a rough night.”
“So we heard. This is Patterson’s daughter.”
“Oh.” Jack rose and offered a hand.
“I’d like to know what happened.”
“It was horrible.” Toni looked up at Johanna through an attractive veil of tears. “Just horrible.”
Jack sent her a look that was three parts impatient, one part sympathetic. He hadn’t minded comforting her, but the truth was, he’d come for Carl. It went through his mind that with Sam here, the soggy-eyed Toni could be passed along.
“We were having a small dinner party. Carl looked a bit tired, but I took it to mean he’d been working too hard, as usual. Then it seemed he couldn’t get his breath. He collapsed into a chair. He complained of pain in his chest and his arm. We called the paramedics.” He started to skim over the rest, then decided Johanna looked strong enough to handle it. “They had to bring him back once.” At that Toni put up a low, heartbreaking sob and was ignored. “The doctor said it was a massive coronary. They’ve been working to stabilize him.”
Her legs were shaking. She could keep her hands steady and her face impassive, but she couldn’t stop her legs from trembling. Massive coronary. Darlene, her father’s wry and witty third wife, would have said that Carl W. Patterson never did anything halfway.
“Did they tell you his chances?”
“They haven’t told us much of anything.”
“We’ve been waiting forever.” Toni dabbed at her eyes again, then drew on her cigarette. In her own way, she was fond of Carl. She wanted to marry him even though she knew that divorce would be at the end of the rainbow. Divorce was easy. Death was another matter. “The press was here five minutes after we were. I knew how much Carl would hate having them report this.”
Johanna sat and for the first time looked, really looked, at her father’s fiancée. Whatever she was, the woman obviously knew Carl. The heart attack was a weakness, and he would detest having it made public knowledge. “I’ll handle the press,” she said tonelessly. “It might be best if you, both of you,” she said, including Jack, “told them as little as possible. Have you seen him?”
“Not since they took him in,” Toni took another drag as she looked out into the corridor. “I hate hospitals.” After crushing out the cigarette, she began to pleat the handkerchief. The silver sequins on her evening dress sparkled opulently in the dim waiting room. “We were supposed to go to Monaco next week. Carl had some business there, but for the most part it was to be a kind of prehoneymoon. He seemed so . . . well, so virile.” The tears started again when the doctor came into the waiting room.
“Miss DuMonde.”
She was up and clutching at both his hands, the picture of the distressed lover barely holding back hysteria. It surprised her to discover it was only half an act. “He’s all right. Tell me Carl’s all right.”
“His condition’s stabilized. We’re running tests to determine the extent of the damage. He’s a strong man, Miss DuMonde, and overall his health seems excellent.”
He looked tired, Johanna thought as she studied the doctor. Unbearably tired, but she recognized the truth. She rose as he glanced her way.
“You’re Mr. Patterson’s daughter?”
“I’m Johanna Patterson. How serious is his condition?”
“I have to tell you it’s very serious. However, he’s getting the best care possible.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“For a few moments. Miss DuMonde?”
“He wouldn’t want me to see him this way. He’d hate it.”
Because Johanna could only agree, she ignored the little stab of resentment and followed the doctor out. “He’s sedated,” she was told. “And he’s being monitored very closely. The next twenty-four hours will tell the tale, but your father’s relatively young, Miss Patterson. An incident like this is often a warning, to slow down, to take a hard look at your own mortality.”
It had to be said, just once out loud, though she knew she would get no absolutes. “Is he going to die?”
“Not if we can help it.” The doctor pushed open a glass door.
There was her father. She’d lived in his house, eaten his food, obeyed his rules. And she barely knew him. The machines that eased his breathing and monitored his vital signs hummed. His eyes were shut, his face pasty under his tan. He looked old. It occurred to her that she’d never thought of him as old, even when she’d been a child. He’d always been handsome, ageless, virile.
She remembered Toni using that word. Virile. That was so important to Carl. He’d often been described as a man’s man—salty tongued, strong shouldered, reckless with women. He’d always been impatient with weaknesses, excuses, illnesses. Perhaps that was why, when he’d reached the middle of his life, the women he’d brought into it had become younger and younger.
He was a hard man, even a cold one, but he’d always been full of life. There was a genius in him, a genius she’d admired as much as she’d feared it. He was an honest man, a man of his word, but never one to give an inch more than he chose.
She touched him once, just a hand over his. It was a gesture she would never have considered making had he been awake.
“Will it happen again?”
“He has an excellent chance of full recovery, if he throws away the cigars, watches his alcohol intake and cuts back on his schedule. There’s his diet, of course,” the doctor went on, but Johanna was already shaking her head.
“I can’t imagine him doing any of those things.”
“People often do what others can’t imagine after they end up in CCU. It’ll be his choice, of course, but he’s not a stupid man.”
“No, he’s not.” She removed her hand. “We’ll need a press release. I can take care of that. When will he be awake?”
“You should be able to talk to him in the morning.”
“I’d appreciate a call if there’s any change before then. I’ll leave my number at the nurses’ station.”
“I should be able to tell you more in the morning.” The doctor pushed open the door again. “You’d do well to get some rest yourself. A recovering cardiac patient can be wearing.”
“Thank you.” Alone, she started back down the hall. In self-defense, she blocked out the image of her father in the hospital bed. The moment she walked back in, Toni was up and grabbing both her hands.
“How is he, Johanna? Tell me the truth, tell me everything.”
“He’s resting. The doctor’s very optimistic.”
“Thank God.”
“Carl will have to make some adjustments—diet, work load, that sort of thing. You’ll be able to see him tomorrow.”
“Oh, I must look a wreck.” The need to check was so ingrained that Toni was already reaching for her compact. “I’ll have to take care of that by tomorrow. I wouldn’t want him to see me with my eyes all red and my hair a fright.”
Again, because it was true, Johanna held back her sarcasm. “He won’t wake up until tomorrow, according to the doctor. I’m going to handle the press—through a hospital spokesman, I think—and make certain his publicist has time to work up a statement. It might be a day or two before h
e’s able to make those decisions for himself.”
She wavered there a moment, trying to imagine her father unable to make any decision. “The important thing for you to do is to keep him calm. Go home and get some rest. They’ll call if there’s any change before morning.”
“How about you?” Sam asked her when Jack had taken Toni down the corridor. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Wanting to judge for himself, he took her chin in his hand. There was something about the eyes, he thought. More than shock, certainly different than grief. Big secrets, he decided. Big fears. “Talk to me, Johanna.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“About your father’s condition.” Though she tried to draw away, he held on. “I want to know about yours.”
“I’m a little tired. I’d like to go home.”
“Okay.” Better, he thought, that they hash this, whatever it was, out at home. “We’ll go back. But I’m staying with you.”