by Liz Crowe
“Oh my God, okay. Soon. I’ll be there soon. I love you.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I love you, too, Ollie. Now hurry. People are starting to stare.” I looked over at the couple across from me, mouths agape and eyes opened wide.
The day couldn’t have gotten any worse. Not only was a man fighting for his life on my behalf, but an accident of this nature would undoubtedly set the project back for weeks. I’d promised the stakeholders for Bright Magazine that the building would be ready to start work in the next fiscal year. This kind of delay could cost severely, but not as much as a man’s life.
And what if my savior sued? This catastrophe had the potential to demolish the plan altogether. If he died, it would be worse. A fucking media frenzy. I rubbed at the headache that started to creep into my temples.
Jesus Christ! When did I become so cold? A man’s life hung in the balance and I was worried about the magazine.
Because all you have is work.
Long ago, I made the decision never to let anything or anyone get in the way of being successful. Growing up, my parents were beyond rich; the perfect socialites. I was groomed to be the epitome of high society. After my Ivy League education, I used my trust fund for the startup costs to build AIR Bright Enterprises from the ground up. Seven years later, I’m worth billions and have my own spot on the Forbes Top Ten Most Successful Women list — a huge feat for a woman only twenty-eight years old.
A half hour went by and the stale air surrounding me changed. Oliver must have arrived. His presence hit me before I even heard his wingtips clacking against the linoleum floor. His gait was rushed. A frown marred his familiar pointed face. The frosted tips of his hair gave the appearance he had been in the sun for hours on end, but I knew his secret — a visit to New York’s finest hair salon twice a month. It was one of my gifts to him for Administrative Professionals Day. A garment bag hung loosely over one arm, man purse over the other, and he clutched a pair of black heels in one hand. His eyes were the size of saucers. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw my blood-crusted suit.
“Oliver!” I hugged him fiercely. He was warm and solid as we stood holding one another.
He pulled back, still holding onto my shoulder. His lip trembled as he looked me over. “Princess ... I — you look awful. Are you sure you’re okay?” Tears filled his eyes, and I wiped them away with my thumbs and smiled for his benefit.
“That bad, huh?”
He nodded. “Here, please go change. I’m burning that suit.”
My smile didn’t quite reach my eyes, but I took the clothes and changed in the ladies room. Once situated in the black suit and heels Oliver brought me, I exited and handed him the bag of soiled garments. He rolled up the bag, walked over to the nearest trash can and tossed the whole lot of it in it without a second thought. He just pitched a three-thousand-dollar suit as if it were a wad of chewing gum that had lost its flavor. I couldn’t care less. I’d never wear it again. Even if the dry cleaners removed the bloodstains, my memories of the experience would never fade. Oliver knew me well.
“I feel better. You?” He rubbed his hands together and straightened his suit jacket.
I swiped my hair off my face and neck. Oliver walked over and caught it in his capable hands. He pulled a black elastic hair tie and bobby pin out of his suit pocket and adeptly streaked his hands through my hair. The calming motion of his fingers combing along my scalp soothed me, reminded me that I was here. Still alive.
Oliver was not only my assistant, but also my best friend. Technically, aside from my sister, my only true friend. Most people in my world were there because of what I could do for them. Money brought out the leeches in droves. I paid Oliver more than I paid my high-powered executives, but he was worth every cent. Oliver never complained and was always there when I needed him, day or night. He was the perfect man.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I tipped my head back and smiled.
He leaned over and kissed my temple. “No, I don’t think you have.” His grin was playful.
“Tell me about the man.”
Oliver fastened the severe ponytail low on the nape of my neck. He spun a piece of the hair he left out around the elastic tie, hiding it from sight, then slid the pin through the hair along my scalp, securing it in place. I’m sure it looked flawless. He was incredible at styling me, buying my suits, fixing my hair. The best I could do on my own was a blow-dry and a few rounded curls when my hair was down. Growing up, I spent too much time hitting the books and not enough time socializing with women to learn simple things, such as styling one’s hair.
The only source I had for things that one would consider “girly” was my sister, London. She was everything I wasn’t. She had honey-colored skin and black hair, like our father, while I had pale skin and blond hair, shared by our mother. We both had our father’s gray-blue eyes. London wasn’t as big in business, but she was a very sought-after interior designer who did very well for herself. Not as well as I had done; my financial worth far exceeded that of my family’s, but it had never been a problem in our relationship. London cared nothing for money, whereas the more money I had, the more secure I felt.
“… and he owns the firm we contracted.” Oliver’s voice brought me back from my thoughts.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He rolled his eyes. “I said his name is Hank Jensen. He owns Jensen Construction.”
“Hank?” The name rolled off my tongue and ended with a sharp click. It suited him.
“Yeah, Hank the Hunk,” Oliver laughed. “Look at the picture from his badge entry photo.” He handed me the image. Though he looked handsome in the photo, my memory of him was better, only tarnished by the pain I saw in his eyes.
Oliver was right. The man was attractive, in a rugged manly-man way. His hair was dark, full, and thick. Even white teeth stretched into a forced smile. Subtle green eyes complimented his tanned skin. Made me curious as to what color the skin was under the T-shirt he wore for the picture. Would he have a hokey farmer’s tan? I wondered if I would ever know the answer to that question. Probably not.
“Where did you say Mr. Jensen was from?”
“Texas. It says here on his background check that he owns several acres of land. According to Google Earth, it looks like a ranch. Oh, color me pretty he’s a cowboy. I love cowboys!” Oliver fiddled with his phone and flipped it over to show me a large green expanse of land.
“You love men.” I snaked the phone from his hands to get a better look and was surprised by the beauty of the lush landscapes. Ranches always seemed like they’d be full of dirt and cows, like in a western movie featuring John Wayne, not something right out of The Sound of Music. The land highlighted rolling green hills with more trees than could be counted and a creek that ran alongside the property line.
“No. Correction my dear, I love beautiful men. Cowboys make me tingle, though.” He fanned his hands in front of his face as if he were having a hot flash.
“Did you get me the information I need to gain access to Mr. Jensen? I have to know that he will be okay. Also, what did Legal say?”
“I can get you access, but it’s going to cost you.”
“Oliver, everyone has a price.” I grinned and looked at him sideways. “What’s the price?”
“Well, on the way over I called the Dean of Medicine and told her the situation, expressed your concern and your interest in the patient’s well-being.”
“Get to the point, Ollie.”
“Alright, alright. You’re going to have to make a hefty charitable donation.”
“Done. How much?”
“Well, they need some new machines … ”
“How much?” My patience was wearing thin and Oliver could tell.
“One hundred.” He looked away and stiffened.
“Fine. Have my accountant cut the check. This man saved my life …” My eyes started to tear up but I fended off the waterworks by standing and adjusting my shoulders
. “Who do we need to see?”
“Excuse me, Ms. Reynolds?” A redheaded woman in an ugly suit that was too big for her petite frame approached us.
“Yes, I’m Ms. Reynolds. And you are?”
She held her hand out to shake mine. “Jane Maxwell, Dean of Medicine. I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.” Her eyes were warm and sincere. Then again, when you were about to be gifted one hundred thousand dollars, a personal visit from the Dean could be expected.
I cut right to the point. “This is my assistant, Oliver. He will be taking care of making a one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation on my behalf.” There was no reason to waste time. Time that could be spent making sure Hank Jensen survived.
“Oh, my! We can’t thank you enough.” Her eyes and smile seemed proportionately large on her round face. “A gift of that size will do wonders for our children’s oncology division.”
I looked over at Oliver, a questioning eyebrow pointed as high as the sky. He looked away, face beet red. He had lied. The woman never gave an amount to him by phone. Probably never mentioned a donation either. He just wanted me to donate to the children’s ward. Oliver had been a leukemia survivor as a child and was always dragging me to events related to cancer and children. Sneaky.
“Happy to help, Ms. Maxwell. Now, if you could help me, I want to know what’s going on with Hank Jensen? Can I see him?”
“He’s in surgery now, but I’ll take you up and ensure you’re approved access to him when he’s in recovery. We couldn’t find any familial contact information, and since your office seems to have more information than we do, it only seems fitting you be granted access.” She winked at me then turned on her heel. “Follow me.”
As we followed the Dean of Medicine, I leaned over and whispered into Oliver’s ear, “You’re going to pay for that one.”
“I always do.” His smile widened and I shook my head in mock indignation.
Once we were settled in the waiting room, I grilled Oliver on Hank’s next of kin and tried to call the number on file. The phone rang nonstop, with no answering machine picking up. In this day and age, I’d think everyone on the planet had voicemail. Apparently not. I returned countless emails from my smartphone and had Oliver cancel all my meetings for the day.
We spent three hours in the waiting room before the surgeon approached us. He was suited from head to bootie-covered toes in medical scrubs. Ms. Maxwell flanked his side.
“Ms. Reynolds? I’m Dr. Nicholls.”
I shook his hand. “How’s Mr. Jensen?” Worry wracked my tone, making it sound as if my throat was laced with sandpaper.
“He’s doing very well. We were able to remove the pipe that went through the connective tissue in his shoulder.”
“Oh my God. You mean the pipe went in one side of his body and out the other?”
“To an extent, yes. We removed it. We were able to reattach the tissues of his shoulder and stitch both the entry and exit wounds up nicely. He’s been in recovery for the past thirty minutes. Should wake up any time now.”
“So he’s going to be okay? What happens next?”
“He’ll need a good four-to-six weeks of recovery to let the tissue heal properly, need to wear a sling to limit mobility. Then another six weeks of physical therapy. We’ll have to check his stitches weekly for infection. The bandage will need changing twice daily. He’s going to need help over the first two weeks after he leaves the hospital.”
I closed my eyes, relieved. Oliver supported me as I said a silent prayer, thanking God he survived. He was hurt, and would spend the next weeks recovering, but he’d recover. That was the important thing. “I’ll make sure he has around-the-clock care.”
Oliver pulled out his phone and stepped off to the side. “Ms. Reynolds is going to need to hire a full–time, highly-skilled nurse … ” I heard him talking softly as he walked out into the hall. Worth every penny, my Ollie was.
“Can I see him?”
“Of course. He should awaken soon. I’ll take you to him.”
I waved at Oliver who followed a few paces behind us. The Dean led us through a series of doors where machines beeped like a metronome, keeping the pace of the healing process. The hospital held the sour odor of disinfectant and vapor rub as we made our way through the halls. I pinched the bridge of my nose to combat the stench. Hospitals reminded me of death.
Ms. Maxwell led me to a closed door. “Go on in. We haven’t been able to reach any of his family.”
“Me either,” I confirmed. “If you do, please let me know.”
She nodded and then walked away. I entered the room while Oliver took a seat just outside the door, phone still held to his ear.
The room was surprisingly large, but my eyes didn’t take in much besides the man lying in the bed. His torso was bare, a thin blanket folded at his waist. A large bandage covered his entire left shoulder.
I walked over to get a better look at my sleeping savior. He was a giant: had to be well over six-feet tall, with thick, muscular arms, broad shoulders, and washboard abs. My heart pounded as I took in every inch of one of the most beautiful bodies I’d ever seen. No farmers tan. All smooth golden skin.
Hank Jenson was a work of art. A smattering of dark hair trailed down past his belly button, the rest hidden from view by the blanket. In sleep, he looked kind, with chiseled features that could have graced any of the big screens or modeling shoots my company managed. Surrounded by beautiful people day-in and day-out in my line of work, I’d never met anyone who could take my breath away. Until now.
I sat down in the chair next to his bed. Thoughts swam through my head, replaying the day’s events. I reached across the bed and tentatively clasped his hand. It wasn’t soft like the hands of a man used to the finer things in life. Hank’s hands were those of a worker. A blue-collared man who spent his days out in the sun, building things with his bare hands. I felt the roughness of his callouses against my palm and a rush of adrenaline shot down my spine.
This man saved my life.
Chapter Two
Something tickled. It felt as though a feather glided up my arm, starting at my wrist and ending at the crook of my elbow, then back down. Felt nice. I tried to move. Pain exploded through my chest and forced a jagged burst of air out my clenched teeth. Searing hot prickles licked across my body and I groaned. The tickle stopped and a hand as soft as silk encased mine. What the hell?
“It’s okay, Hank. I’m here.” A woman’s voice registered in my ears.
I turned my head toward the voice and opened my eyes. A clouded figure stood at my bedside clutching my hand. The softened halo around the form brightened and crisp edges appeared. My angel. Relief soothed its way through every inch of me, coating the hurt a little. A wide smile split across dry lips as things came into complete focus. Damn, the woman was beautiful. Gray-blue eyes shone bright against the dark of her suit and pearl nature of her pale skin. Her sculpted brows nit together as she studied me.
“Angel, my beautiful angel.” My voice came out raspy. Confusion set in and I searched the space. How did I get here? Why was she at my bedside? Why was I in bed? It was obvious from the white walls down to the scratchy starched sheets that I was in a hospital room. I tried to adjust my shoulders to relieve the heavy ache that weighed me down but fiery pokers lanced even the tiniest movement.
She scampered over to a side table and returned with a pink cup. With a straw held between her fingers she brought the plastic to my lips and I drank eagerly. My throat was drier than the bales of hay I feed my horses.
After I drank my fill, I watched as she fiddled with her jacket, straightening wrinkles that didn’t exist. Her teeth bit down on the pink of her bottom lip, and I felt my heart thud against my chest.
“What happened?” I remembered very little. My left wrist had something tugging and pulling at the skin. I moved my right hand over to feel it and realized there was an IV. I did a mental check of my body, starting at my toes. They moved easy enough. My legs
seemed heavier, and every last twinge or slight movement of my upper body hurt. The pain was bad, but tolerable. It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t move. My left shoulder seemed to be the worst. Kind of like a burned out hollow oak tree. It was still there but not in any working order.
With caution, I moved the right one. It functioned without problem, though still heavier than normal. Must be pumping drugs through that IV. When I tried to move the left shoulder again it was as if all the nerves in my body went on alert and rushed to that area to scream in unison. My teeth clenched, holding back the groan dying to get out.
“Mr. Jensen,” she started. “You were in an accident. The crane broke and …”
“I remember that much, Darlin’. What I don’t remember is how I ended up here with a busted wing.”
Her eyes ran over my chest. When I caught her staring she looked away, face turning a soft pink. I rather liked the color on her pretty skin. “Um, well, you jumped in front of me. One of the metal pipes pierced your shoulder. You’ve been in surgery the past few hours.” Her eyes came back to mine. “I can’t believe you would do that for a … ”
“An angel in white?” I gave her my best smile, considering the circumstances. Her lips twitched at the corners.
“I was going to say a perfect stranger.” Her gaze searched mine, a frown marring her elegant features. She was struggling with something, but hell if I knew what. My woman decoder was broken on account of whatever shit was in the IV.
I shrugged on instinct and the pain zipped through my shoulder. My head fell back and I gritted my teeth, trying to not cry out. Wouldn’t want the dame to think I was a pussy.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” she gasped, as her soft fingers felt all over my face and chest to assess the damage.
The woman’s hands seemed to hold magic because when they flitted over my skin I didn’t feel any pain, only a deep sense of content. Her scent drifted over me. Smelled like sweet apple pie on a perfect Sunday morning back home. It soothed me, going a long way to ease the full body ache.