Читать книгу Season Of Strangers - Kat Martin - Страница 10

Commander Valenden Zarkazian lay quietly beneath the clean white sheet on the hospital bed, listening to the beeping sound of the heart monitor attached by wires to his chest. The curtains were drawn so that only a sliver of light fed into the darkened room, dimly illuminating the stark white walls and dull gray linoleum floors. He was lying on his back, his mouth and nose covered by a plastic oxygen mask, his arms resting limply at his sides. A needle dripped clear liquid into a vein in his wrist.

He was glad for the quiet, the undisturbed moments to gather his thoughts and come to grips with where he was and what he was feeling.

To discover exactly who he had become.

It was the oddest sensation, lying there in the darkness, one that, with his limited information, he hadn’t completely expected. His body lay still but his thoughts were in turmoil. His mind was a jumble of information, his senses bursting with memories, images, and sensations—both tactile and internal—the forces so powerful they nearly overwhelmed him.

It was easier to deal with the physical aspects of his incredible journey, the weight of a body influenced by Earth’s heavy gravity, the pulsing of a heart inside the cage of his chest, the in-and-out motion of air rushing to and from his lungs. Those things he had expected. He had been studying the human form for years; he was well prepared for the physical transition he would make.

It was the invasion of the mind, the onslaught of memories and emotions he was ill-prepared to deal with, the meshing, the mixing, the overwhelming oneness he felt with Patrick Alexander Donovan.

The astonishing fact was, in a way he hadn’t expected, he actually was Patrick Donovan. He knew everything Patrick knew, every thought he’d ever had, every fear, every need, every wish. He knew the man’s strengths as well as his failings. He knew the depth of his depravity as well as the heights of his goodness.

Fortunately, considering Patrick’s somewhat weak, self-destructive personality, it was Val Zarkazian who was now in control.

It was Val’s strength of will, Val’s sense of purpose, Val’s set of values that would rule Patrick Donovan’s heretofore misused mind and body.

He settled his head against the pillow, feeling the slick white smoothness of the case, smelling the stringent hospital odors, and trying not to think of the prickle of pain in his wrist where the intravenous needle pumped fluid into his body. Instead he let himself absorb the memories, the experiences that had been the sum total of Patrick Donovan’s life.

Val knew most humans had not been born into the privileged existence Patrick had, yet from the images he received of the boy’s lonely childhood, he wondered if other, less advantaged children were not far better off.

He wondered about Patrick’s father, the man Patrick had loved so much, a man too busy after the death of his beloved wife to pay attention to his only son. A man Patrick had always admired, yet also resented. A man who in the past few years had tried to reach out to him. Unfortunately for Patrick, by then it was too late.

He wondered about the mother who had died when the boy was ten years old, at the stepmother, a society woman, a beautiful “social butterfly”—to quote one of Patrick’s own thoughts—who dressed him up in blue blazers and showed him off to her friends, who bought him dozens of expensive toys, but abandoned him to a nanny until he was big enough to be left on his own.

Big enough to get into trouble. Big enough to turn to sex and drugs.

Val wondered about the former. On Toril, the planet he came from, generations were perpetuated by test tube births. Male and female were paired genetically, then linked together after their maturity to form a loosely regulated, monogamous family unit. There was no such thing as sex, not in the sense of the physical linking that Patrick had apparently enjoyed so much.

Drugs Val understood. He was a scientist, after all. He knew their debilitating effects, the totally destructive power the misuse of drugs could unleash. In that regard, there was no need for experimentation. Only a need to repair the damage to Patrick’s ravaged body that the drugs, alcohol, and off-and-on smoking had caused.

Val stirred restlessly on the hospital bed. Now that he was here, there was so much he wanted to do, so much to see, so much to experience. There was nothing he could do to hurry things along; he couldn’t afford to alert them to the fact that this Patrick was somehow different than the Patrick he was before. The change would have to be gradual. Believable. Allowing Val to emerge, to become an acceptable part of Patrick without destroying the essence of who Patrick was.

It would happen all in due course, he told himself. Patience had been a virtue he had tried hard to cultivate, yet already he found himself straining at the bit, as Patrick would have said, itching to be free to get on with his work. Patrick’s body had been physically repaired, the massive damage to his heart had been undone at the moment of Unification. By a physical weakness, an instant of good fortune for Val, and Patrick’s own reckless nature, the perfect vessel had been provided for him to continue his work.

It was the chance he’d been waiting for.

The chance of a lifetime.

Val clenched his hands into fists, testing the dexterity, feeling the smooth glide of muscle between skin and bone. Careful not to disturb the needle in his wrist, he held them up in front of his face to survey the long, dark, tapering fingers, the short, blunt, neatly manicured nails. It was one thing to know Patrick’s thoughts, another to experience exactly what a human male was feeling.

There was so much ahead of him. So much to learn, so much to explore. Of chief concern was the Ferris female. In the next few hours, he would search Patrick Donovan’s memory banks for every thought, every recollection of the woman the man had ever had. Soon he would begin, but not yet.

Instead Val closed his eyes and willed his turbulent thoughts to rest. He would start with something else, something that would help his host’s battered body regain the strength it needed. Something he could do right here in this quiet, barren room. He would begin by experiencing the phenomena humans called sleeping. He closed his eyes and allowed the sensation to begin.

Alexander Donovan gripped the sides of his wheelchair as it rolled down the busy corridors of Cedar Sinai Hospital pushed by Nathan Jefferson Jones, the big ex-football tackle who served as his male nurse. The pair made an odd combination, Alex thin and frail with a leonine mane of snowy hair; Nathan, brawny, bulging with muscle, his head completely shaved and as shiny and black as a bowling ball.

While Alex was left-brained and fixated on work even after the stroke his stressful life had caused, Nathan lived for the moment, always smiling, cheery in the face of nearly any adversity. Keeping Alex going when he sometimes so badly wanted to just give up and let the good Lord take him away.

“There’s Julie, Mr. D.” Nathan pointed down the corridor. “I figured she’d be waiting right there, in front of Patrick’s door.”

Alex shifted in his wheelchair, relaxed a little when he saw the small, red-haired figure beside the door to his son’s hospital room. Things were always better when Julie was around.

“Alex! I’m so glad you’re here.” She hurried toward him, walked over and hugged him hard. He could only hug her back with one arm, but it felt good to absorb her warmth and reassuring strength.

“How is he? Have you seen him yet?” The words came out a little slurred, since one side of his mouth didn’t move, but Julie had grown used to his affliction and easily understood.

“I peeked in on him as soon as they would let me, but Patrick was sleeping. Babs was here with me until just a few minutes ago. She had to leave for an appointment but she stayed until the doctor came. He says the news is all very good.”

“Thank God,” Alex said, his bent frame sagging with relief. Standing next to his chair, Julie absently rubbed her temple. Alex frowned, worried she might be getting another of her recent migraine headaches.

She smiled, but it looked a little forced. “How about you? Are you okay?”

“By the time you called, Patrick was already out of danger. I suppose I should be angry that you didn’t call me sooner, but I know why you did it, and my doctor would probably argue you did the right thing.”

“I didn’t want to upset you any more than I had to. I did what Patrick would have wanted me to do.”

Just then Dr. Manley, the cardiologist who had been caring for Patrick, walked up, a slight, dark-haired man wearing spectacles and a long white lab coat. “You’re Alex Donovan, Patrick’s father?”

“That’s correct. And this is Ms. Ferris, a close family friend.”

“Ms. Ferris and I have already met,” the doctor said.

“What can you tell us, Dr. Manley? What has happened to my son?”

“First let me say that your son can look forward to a full recovery. I want you to know that right from the beginning so that as we speak, you won’t be unduly upset.”

“I understand your concern for my health, Doctor, but Julie has already spared me the worst of it. Now if you will, I’d like you to tell me exactly what you know.”

The doctor glanced down at the papers on the clipboard he held in a pair of elegant, long-figured hands. “At exactly 11:45 a.m. this morning your son suffered a massive myocardial infarction. We believe it was drug-induced, a toxic reaction that usually occurs from an overdose, but in this case was caused by an accumulation of drugs taken over a number of years in smaller, but still harmful doses.”

He glanced down at the chart. “The drugs produced hemorrhage and cardiac arrhythmias. Cardiac dysfunction occurred, causing damage to the ventricle and the adjacent portion of the inter ventricular septum, which at first we believed might be too extensive to repair, or that by the time we were ready to operate, it would be too late.”

The doctor studied a note on the paper, then looked up. “Fortunately, once your son reached the hospital and we began our series of tests, we discovered the damage to the wall of the heart was minimal. The electrocardiogram showed surgery wasn’t necessary after all.”

Alex said nothing for the longest time, but his insides felt knotted up inside him. He had known about Patrick’s drug use for years, but his son had never been an addict. Alex had tried to convince himself Patrick would eventually mature, assume more responsibility, and outgrow his fascination with alcohol and drugs. Obviously, that hadn’t happened.

Alex felt defeated in a way even his stroke had not accomplished.

“How long will he have to stay in the hospital?” he asked.

“A couple of days. He’ll need to take it easy after that for several weeks—and he’ll have to stay off drugs.”

“Of course,” Alex replied automatically. But in his heart, he knew his wayward son never would.

“Perhaps he’ll slow down a little now,” Julie said gently. “People can change, you know, even people like Patrick.” But the look in her pretty green eyes said she didn’t really believe it any more than he did.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to excuse myself,” the doctor said. “There’s another patient I have to see before I leave. If you have any questions, I’ll be in my office tomorrow.”

Alex watched him walk away, took a steadying breath and turned toward Julie. “Shall we go in and see him?” he asked with tender affection.

He had known Julie Ferris for the past eight years, had been her mentor in the real estate business and come to love her like the daughter he never had. He knew she cared a great deal for his son. But not enough to overlook his many failings. Even Alex couldn’t hope for that.

Julie took hold of his thin, veined hand, lacing her fingers through his. As Nathan shoved his wheelchair through the door, he noticed how tired she looked, the tight, strained lines around her mouth. It appeared as if she had slept in the wrinkled pink linen suit she wore. Perhaps for a time she had.

Julie held the door so Nathan could push him into the room. Surprisingly Patrick’s eyes were open when they walked in.

Julie left Alex’s side and moved toward him, clasped one of his dark hands in her own. “We’ve been so worried. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” He smiled at her, but it looked strained and unsteady. “I’m glad you’re here. I should have known you…would be.” The words sounded rough, husky, as if he had trouble forcing them out.

“Your father’s here, too.” Julie stepped back as Nathan wheeled Alex closer to the bed.

“I got here as soon as I heard,” he said. “Julie was playing protector. She didn’t call me until she knew for sure you’d be all right.”

Patrick smiled again, a little less stiffly this time. “She spends more time watching out for other people than she does watching out for herself.”

“Are you kidding?” Julie squeezed his hand. “If I didn’t have someone to look after, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“You can look after me any time you like,” Patrick said, and for an instant, he seemed surprised he’d said the words, then he relaxed and looked up at her. “The doctor says I’ll be out of here in a couple of days. You can look after me back at the office.”

“He also says you’re supposed to take it easy. If it takes Babs and me, Nathan, Alex and Dr. Manley all put together, we’re going to see that you do.”

Patrick said nothing to that. He was watching her strangely, staring into her eyes as if he wanted to reach down inside her. Color crept into her cheeks. Her hand fluttered nervously when she withdrew it from his.

A noise in the hall disturbed them, drew Alex’s attention to the opening door. “I’m sorry,” the stout nurse said, “but all of you will have to leave. It’s time for Mr. Donovan’s medication. He needs peace and quiet, and as much rest as he can get.”

Patrick made an disgruntled sound in his throat.

“I’ll be back to see you in the morning,” Julie said. “In the meantime, get some sleep—and Patrick?” A fine black eyebrow arched up. “For once in your life, do what the doctor says.”

But Julie’s admonitions had never had much success in controlling Patrick’s excesses. Alex wished his son could learn to control himself.

Sitting at her desk, going over the Whitelaw escrow file, Julie answered the phone and was surprised to hear the sound of Patrick’s voice coming through the receiver.

“Julie?”

“Patrick? You’re feeling well enough to use the phone?”

“Yes…in fact they’re releasing me today.” Since his heart attack, his voice sounded a little huskier than it usually did, a bit gruffer, yet at the same time more refined. Perhaps it was the oxygen he’d been forced to breathe…or maybe it was just her imagination.

“That’s wonderful, Patrick.” She had gone to see him during visiting hours every day, but after the first time, she had stayed only briefly. As soon as word got out of Patrick’s illness, the corridor outside his room had been clogged with his legions of women, which was why the next words that came from him over the phone were so surprising.

“I was wondering…if you weren’t too busy…if you might be able to pick me up.”

Something unfurled in her stomach, a mixture of wariness and pleasure. Julie ruthlessly forced it down. When she spoke to him next, a note of tartness rose into her voice. “I thought Anna, or Charlotte, or—”

“If you don’t have time, I understand. I know how much work you have to do.”

She felt churlish and silly. She and Patrick were friends, after all. Of course she’d be happy to pick him up. “I’m not that busy. What time are you being released?”

“Sometime after two. They didn’t exactly say.”

“All right, I’ll be there at two.”

“It might be later. I can call you after the paperwork’s done and I’m ready to leave. It won’t take long for you to get here.”

“I’ll be there at two. I can imagine how eager you are to get out of there. Maybe I can hurry things along.” If it hadn’t seemed so foolish, she would have sworn she could feel him smile as she hung up the phone.

As Patrick had predicted, the paperwork wasn’t finished when she arrived at the hospital at two-fifteen. Patrick was still in bed, fidgeting nervously, ringing the bell for the nurse for at least the tenth time since noon.

“Sorry,” he said, “I should have insisted you wait for my call.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll speak to the nurse and see if I can’t get them to hurry.”

A few minutes later, she returned with the news that Dr. Manley had just come in and signed the release forms. The nurse would be there in a few more minutes to help him get dressed. As soon as he was ready, he could leave.

“I don’t need the woman’s help,” Patrick grumbled, swinging his long, suntanned legs to the side of the bed. The sheet slid away. Julie noticed the white cotton hospital gown had bunched midthigh and that his bare legs were muscled and covered with a dusting of fine black hair. “She’s more overbearing than a…than a…”

“Drill sergeant?” Julie supplied.

He seemed to ponder that. Then he smiled. “Exactly. I’d rather do it on my own.” But when he tried to stand up, his legs turned suddenly unsteady and a shaft of weakness rippled through him.

“Here, let me help you.”

Patrick swayed precariously as she drew near and only the arm she slid beneath his shoulders kept him from sprawling on the floor.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

He was staring at her oddly, studying her with those striking blue eyes. Something fluttered in her stomach, sent a thread of heat spiraling through her. It made her notice how handsome he was, even with his hair slightly mussed and the ugly white hospital gown sliding off a wide, tanned shoulder. It was ridiculous and yet she couldn’t deny that physically, she had always been attracted to Patrick.

His glance shifted, came to rest on the place where their two bodies touched. She could feel the heat shimmering between them and apparently so could he. His whole body stiffened and impulsively he jerked away, nearly knocking them both to the ground.

“For heaven’s sake, Patrick, take it easy. If you keep that up, you’re going to land us both in a heap. Why don’t you just stand still and I’ll get your clothes. You can sit in the chair and put them on.”

He simply nodded. His face looked flushed and even his ears were red. She couldn’t imagine Patrick Donovan being embarrassed in front of a woman, but it certainly looked as though he was. She took her time removing his shirt, shoes, and pants from the tiny closet, giving him a chance to collect himself. The items were freshly laundered, she saw, not the clothes he had been wearing when he’d been brought in. Anna or Charlotte or one of his whoevers must have brought clean clothes from his apartment. She wondered why he hadn’t asked the woman to pick him up.

Setting his garments on a table beside the chair, she pulled open the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me. All you have to do is call out.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said stiffly, and began to rifle through the clothes.

Outside the room, Julie sat down on a narrow gray vinyl bench. Watching patients and nurses, doctors and visitors making their way down the hall, she toyed with the strap of her purse and hoped Patrick was truly all right.

A few minutes later, the door opened up and he walked out into the corridor, smiling as if he was pleased with himself for simply getting dressed, though she couldn’t imagine why he would be.

“I’m ready if you are,” he said.

Julie came to her feet. “I’m afraid you still can’t leave. You’ll have to go out in a wheelchair. The nurse says that’s hospital policy.” It occurred to her that for a man recovering from a heart attack, he certainly looked good.

In navy blue slacks and a short-sleeved, knit pullover sweater, he could have just stepped off of a billboard.

Patrick stared at her and frowned. “A wheelchair? Why would I have to do that?”

“Because they don’t want to get sued if you should fall.”

The nurse walked up just then, a big beefy woman in her fifties. “That’s right, Mr. Donovan, that’s the way it’s got to be, and if you want to blame somebody for it, blame the shyster lawyer who sued us for damages and won.”

He had nothing to say to that, just sat down quietly and let the woman wheel him away. Julie was a little amazed. Patrick was anything but meek, especially when he didn’t get his way. Then again, maybe the heart attack had left him weaker than he looked.

Val let the woman push him into the elevator and the stainless steel doors slid closed. Beside him in a soft peach suit, Julie Ferris fidgeted with the strap of her over-the-shoulder purse.

He tried not to look at her. When he did, he thought of the way Patrick Donovan’s body—his body now—had behaved when she had unwittingly pressed against him to steady his wobbly legs.

He understood what had happened. He understood an erection—theoretically.

The soft feel of her breasts had triggered a memory of her naked, thrashing on the blue-veined curlon examination table, her small, well-formed body fighting the invisible force that had held her in place.

The meshing of that memory with those Patrick Donovan carried, heightened by the close physical contact, had caused his reproductive organ to grow momentarily hard. He knew it meant the male of the species was physically aroused, that he wanted to mate with the female and deposit his sperm.

He just hadn’t understood the way the sensation would make him feel.

He said nothing as the nurse wheeled him silently down the hall, but soon his thoughts of Julie Ferris were swamped by more pressing sensations. The noise of footfalls in the corridor, the soft thud of rubber-soled shoes mixed with the crisp slap of leather. The dull roar of mingling voices, some of them low and speaking in whispers, others raised in heated debate as they hurried through the halls. The odors he had noticed in his room earlier were magnified a thousand times out here, some of them so strong they made his nostrils burn.

As they approached the front doors, sunlight streamed into the reception area. Val blinked several times, wincing as the bright rays stabbed painfully behind his eyes.

“Take care of him, Ms. Ferris,” the nurse said, pushing the wheelchair out through the automatic doors and onto the wide cement steps in front of the building. A strong female arm helped him stand up. “I guarantee he’ll be a handful.” She winked and Julie smiled.

He watched the woman walk away, saying nothing, too caught up in the sights and sounds pressing in on him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Julie asked, her expression worried, her eyes fixed on his face. She linked an arm through his, helping to steady him. “All of a sudden, you look kind of pale.”

Val ran his tongue across lips that felt rubbery and numb. Even if he could tell her what he was feeling, he couldn’t possibly begin to describe it. There was no way to express the riot of colors—the bright green of the lawns and trees, the azure blue of the sky, the stunningly vivid red of a sports car roaring past them on the street.

“I’m fine, Julie. I’ll just be glad to get home.”

She studied him with concern. “The car’s right out front in the passenger loading zone. We don’t have far to go.”

She said nothing more and neither did he. He could barely function for the jagged sensations ripping through his head. Toril was a planet of peace and serenity. There were no bright colors, no loud noises, no pungent smells. It was a pastel world, a world of grays and browns and a few muted blues, a palette of shaded colors that seemed amazingly washed out in comparison to the splashy, vibrant hues that enlivened the world of Earth.

Aside from the clothes he had seen on the subjects they had been studying, and what they had observed of the planet through their surveillance devices, he had never experienced anything to compare with the rich display spread before him like a banquet for the eyes. On Toril, the sky was a nondescript white, the plant life, even in blossom, brightened to no more than shades of weak pastel. People dressed in solid colors of those same watered shades, the styles varying little between social orders, the three different races, or male and female gender.

Here it seemed as though each individual tried to carve out his own identity by the color and style of his clothes. It gave the place an atmosphere of constant festivity, a parade of vibrant stripes, prints, and plaids all run together in a mishmash of design and color that splashed against the inner wall of the eye.

They had nearly reached the curb when a car horn blared and he stumbled backward. Another horn answered then another and another, driving the cacophony straight into his head. His hands came up to cover his ears, and beside him he felt Julie stiffen.

“Get in the car,” she commanded, opening the door and easing him in. Noticing his growing pallor, she moved the seat back a little and helped him settle his long legs inside.

The car was small, a Mercedes, Patrick’s memory said. But the top was up and so were the windows. When Julie closed the door, some of the loud noise abated. As she eased herself into the driver’s seat, snapped her seat belt then his, Val leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“You don’t look good. Maybe it’s too soon for you to leave. Maybe I should take you back inside.”

His eyes snapped open. He sat up a little straighter in the seat. “I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

“Are you sure, Patrick—and don’t lie to me. I’d feel terrible if something else happened to you.”

He turned his head in her direction, an odd tingling warmth in the pit of his stomach. “Would you?”

The color rushed into her cheeks. He knew the surge of blood was caused by feelings of embarrassment. He understood the sensation, since it had already happened to him.

“Of course, I’d care. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes…friends.” But in his head, something said friendship wasn’t all that Patrick had felt for Julie Ferris and it was never what he’d wanted.

Val lay back against the seat as the car rumbled to life, the funny vibrations running up his back and shoulders. In the confines of the car, a faint, sweet fragrance drifted over from Julie’s side of the car, a smell so subtle he hadn’t noticed it before.

“I like the…perfume…you’re wearing,” he said, testing the word on his tongue.

“It’s Michael Kors. Your father bought it for me last year for my birthday. It’s expensive, but it’s definitely my favorite.”

“Mine, too,” he said, inhaling deeply. There were no vile smells on Toril, not like the ones he’d noticed in the hospital, or those drifting up from the gutter he had whiffed as he’d slid into the car. But there was also nothing like the soft sweet fragrance of Michael Kors, either. He liked the way it mingled with Julie’s own special scent, giving her a softly feminine fragrance all her own.

The small car hummed along. Val settled back in the seat, stretching his long legs out as best he could. Outside the window, the landscape of Beverly Hills slid past in a blur of sound and color. Automobiles of every design and hue crammed the streets to overflowing. People crowded along the sidewalks, hurrying to destinations he couldn’t begin to guess. Buildings rose up from the pavement, their storefronts shaded by bright canvas awnings, the windows glowing with vibrant signs made of…neon…yes, that was the word.

“We’re almost there,” Julie said, turning the car off Wilshire onto Oakhurst Drive. Just past Burton Way, she slowed the engine, turned, and pulled off the road, stopping in front of the heavy metal fence that enclosed the parking garage. “I found this with your clothes.”

She held up a small square box Patrick’s memory said opened the door to the underground parking. “One of your lady friends must have come by and picked it up along with the rest of your things.”

The woman called Anna, he recalled. A tall, slenderly built blond female who had come to see him several times in the hospital. She had kissed him, he recalled, not an unpleasant sensation, but when she had reached beneath the covers to stroke his sex, he’d nearly had a second heart attack.

Patrick’s memory had kicked in, enlightening him on their recent acquaintance—and the fact the woman was a great deal of the reason that, aside from the part of Patrick that Val had absorbed, the living, reasoning essence of Patrick Donovan was gone.

Still, the transformation was not as he’d expected. With each passing hour, he felt a subtle shifting, a reaching out, a melding of consciousness as new information, more of Patrick’s being was fully absorbed. He had expected to be solidly in control, less vulnerable to the thoughts Patrick once had, the emotions he had experienced.

Instead it was if he and Patrick had merged, begun to form a third, distinctly different being. It frightened him. Made him worry what residue those changes might leave inside him.

Fear. Val could taste it in his mouth.

It was an emotion unknown to the people of Toril.