Читать книгу Season Of Strangers - Kat Martin - Страница 9

Pain. Excruciating pain. Julie felt the throbbing, pulsing ache well up from the deepest part of her brain.

The slatted wooden blinds over the bedroom windows were closed, yet tiny cracks of light seeped in, stabbing like white hot rays behind her eyes. The hot, damp skin across her forehead felt stretched and swollen as if it might burst. Her lips were dry. She moistened them with her tongue. Nausea threatened, a reaction to the incredible pain in her head.

Julie rolled to her side, her small hands fisting the pillow, her teeth biting into her lower lip. It wouldn’t last much longer. It never did. No more than a couple of hours. The brief duration made them bearable, and the fact she had never had them until these past few weeks.

Perhaps it was some sort of virus, an illness that was fleeting. She could stand the pain, if only she knew the cause.

Knew for certain the headaches wouldn’t get worse.

A second hour passed. Her body lay on the sheet bathed in perspiration, but the pain had begun to recede. She felt limp and drained. It was nine o’clock in the morning. She was late for work, had already missed the weekly office meeting. She wished she could just stay in bed, but headache or no, she had to go in. There was too much to do, too many clients who depended on her.

Another fifteen minutes and the last of the vicious migraine—the worst she’d suffered so far—had ebbed away. Julie gripped the pine headboard, used it as a lever to swing her legs to the floor and ease herself up off the bed. As she passed the mirror over her dresser, she paused, took in the dishevelment of her hair, and the pallor of her face that made the freckles stand out across the bridge of her nose. She headed into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped in before the water got good and hot.

Perhaps the test Dr. Marsh was giving her this afternoon would provide the answer. A dozen horrible scenarios flashed through her mind, everything from cancer to the brain tumor the doctor had mentioned.

She had to find out. Then again, maybe she didn’t want to know.

Julie washed her hair, grateful for the soothing feel of the water running over her scalp. She shaved her legs, lathered her breasts and belly, then moved lower. She felt a twinge as her hand brushed sensitive flesh. It had been so long. Three years since she had been with a man.

Not like Laura. Laura had to have a man, needed one like people need to breathe. And her sleek model’s figure and glorious long blond hair made attracting them easy. But Julie wanted more from a relationship than just a sexual fling, and if she couldn’t have it she was happy to do without.

She stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. Her head still throbbed and her hands were a bit unsteady, but her strength had begun to return. Maybe the headaches would disappear as quickly as they had started. She hoped so. With her worry for Laura, the problems she was facing at work, and her burgeoning expenses, she had enough problems already.

She sighed as she walked to the closet and slid open the mirrored doors. Her beige suit would do. She wasn’t in the mood for anything but plain-and-simple. She took her time dressing. Her muscles ached and she still felt a little bit shaky. As soon as she stepped into her matching leather pumps, she made her way to the guest room in search of Laura, but her sister wasn’t there.

The guest room looked a shambles. The bed was unmade, the sheets thrashed off haphazardly, the bright-colored quilt shoved carelessly onto the floor. Julie crossed to the closed bathroom door.

“Laura, are you in there? Are you all right?”

“I-I’m fine,” she answered through the door. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”

When Laura finally appeared, Julie was stunned at the sight of her sister’s pale, haggard face, at the faint purple smudges beneath her brown eyes and the sunken hollows in her cheeks. “My God, are you sick? You should have said something.” She set her palm on Laura’s forehead, checking for any sign of temperature, but the skin felt cold and slightly damp instead of warm, as she had expected. “Get back in bed. I’ll go down and get you something to eat.”

“I-I’m all right, Julie. I’m just a little tired is all.”

“You look like you’re a lot more than tired. Maybe you’ve got the flu or something.”

“Maybe. That’s kind of the way it feels.” A hint of embarrassed color rose into her ashen cheeks. “I-I was bleeding this morning…from inside. It wasn’t much, just a trace or two. You don’t think it’s anything serious, do you?”

“I-I don’t know. Has it happened before?”

“Only once. The morning after we suntanned in the cove on the beach.”

“I think we’d better have Dr. Marsh take a look at you. I have to go in for a few more tests this afternoon. You can come with me.”

“You’re still having those headaches?”

“Bad one last night. I finally took some sleeping pills and eventually fell asleep. I must have slept pretty hard once I did.”

Laura frowned. “I had a terrible dream last night. I can’t remember it now, but I remember at the time it was really scary.”

“It probably is the flu. You’d better stay here through the weekend, at least until—”

“No! I-I don’t want to stay here. As a matter of fact, I’m going home this afternoon. I’ll feel better sleeping in my own bed. That’s probably all that’s wrong with me. Too much dampness in the air.”

“I don’t know, Laura. Dr. Heraldson thought staying here was a good idea. And now that you’re sick—”

“I’m going home, Julie. I promise I won’t call the police or do anything crazy, okay?”

Julie looked at her hard. “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“And you’ll go with me to the doctor’s this afternoon?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?”

Julie sighed. “I don’t mean to be pushy. I’m just worried about you is all.”

“I know that.” Laura walked over and hugged her. “Thanks for caring so much. You’ve always been there for me, ever since Dad took off. Mom wasn’t much of a mother, but you were always there. I appreciate it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She smiled. “But I promise I’ll be okay, so you don’t have to worry.”

Julie fidgeted, smoothed the skirt of her tailored suit. “I guess neither one of us got a good night’s sleep last night.”

Laura just shrugged, but she looked uncomfortable with the subject. For some strange reason, Julie was uncomfortable with it, too.

“I’ll be back to pick you up around noon. In the meantime, why don’t you go back to bed for a while? You’ll be all right until I get here, won’t you?”

“Sure,” Laura said lightly, “I’ll be fine.” But as soon as her sister left, she got up and bolted the doors. She checked and locked all the windows in her bedroom, then locked the ones in the rest of the house. She didn’t open them, not even when the sun came out and the day turned warm. Not even when the temperature began to climb into the nineties and she began to perspire in the closed-up, airless bedroom.

“I’m worried about her, Babs.” Julie shifted restlessly in the black leather chair behind her desk. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with her.”

Seated on the opposite side, Barbara Danvers made a rude sound in her throat. “You’re always worried about your sister and there’s always something wrong with her. Until she takes control of her life, there always will be.” Black-haired and dark-eyed, Babs had just turned thirty. She’d been married three times, to a banker, an actor and a successful television producer. She was divorced again, worked too hard but didn’t really have to, not after the settlement she’d received from Archibald Danvers two years ago.

“You’re too tough on her, Babs.” Julie sat forward in her chair, propping her elbows on the desk. They were working in her office, going over the Richards file, an estate in Palos Verdes that Babs had listed and Julie had sold. “You know the kind of life Laura’s had. A father who was gone by the time she was five years old, a mother who was never home. No supervision, no direction, never enough money to make ends meet. It’s a wonder she hasn’t had more problems than she has.”

“I hate to remind you, but Laura had the same childhood you had and look at the difference in the way the two of you turned out. You put yourself through college. You’re a successful real estate agent with a lovely home on Malibu Beach. Laura’s a twenty-first-century hippie.”

“Hardly that.”

A sleek black brow arched up. “No?”

“Just because she’s had a number of different jobs—”

“She hasn’t worked more than three months in a row since I’ve known her. How much did you spend on Laura’s medical bills last year?”

“That isn’t fair.”

“I’ll tell you what isn’t fair. Having to work the kind of hours you do to support your sister’s hypochondria.”

Julie glanced away. “This is different.”

“I’ll just bet it is. What does the psychiatrist have to say…Dr. What’s-his-name?”

“Heraldson.” Staring through the glass into the main part of the office, Julie jumped up from her chair as Patrick strode in, grateful for the chance to avoid Babs’ last question. She almost wished she hadn’t brought the subject up, but maybe she needed a dose of Babs’s honesty. “I have to speak to Patrick. I have an offer on one of the units in his condo project.”

“Brave girl. You’re actually going to sell something Patrick Donovan’s involved in?”

Julie jerked open the door without responding. Another shot of Babs’ honesty right now was more than she could manage. She hurried out into the office, running to catch up with Patrick’s long-legged stride.

“Sorry to bother you, Patrick. Have you got a minute?”

“Sure, come on in. Shirl said you wanted to see me.” He led her into the plush interior of his spacious office, remodeled since the days when the place had been his father’s. Instead of the understated mahogany and beige used throughout the rest of the building, Patrick’s office was bold and energetic, done in electric blue and black. Julie took a chair in front of his black lacquered desk, settling herself in one of the deep leather chairs, and Patrick sat down across from her.

“What can I do for you, love?”

Julie glanced up from the manila file folder she’d been rifling through. “I asked you not to call me that. Save it for Anna, or Charlotte, or another one of your bimbos.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other. “My, we’re testy today, aren’t we?”

She looked up at him, saw the usual dark shadows beneath his eyes, as well as a puffiness she hadn’t noticed before. Some of her anger at him faded. “You look like hell, Patrick. You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for your father.”

He said nothing to that, but his shoulders sagged a little, and some of his cockiness faded. “He’s not doing so well, Jules. The doctors are afraid he might have another stroke.”

“Oh, God, Patrick.”

“I’m sure he’ll be all right. The old goat’s too tough to die.” He smiled but it came out a little shaky. “You said you needed to see me. What about?”

Escaping the painful subject of Alex’s failing health, Julie pulled the thick sheaf of documents out of the file she’d retrieved from her briefcase. “I’ve got an offer on one of the units in your condo project. Mr. and Mrs. Harvey are interested in buying number thirty-three.”

His long fingers tightened around the burgundy Mont Blanc pen he was holding. “I thought you said you didn’t like the project, that it was too shaky, that you wouldn’t put one of your clients into the development until it was almost full.”

“I think the construction could be better. You skimped too much as far as I’m concerned. But the Harveys insisted I show it to them. They like the location—so do I for that matter. Santa Monica is growing and this is very near the beach. Besides, you said the units had finally begun to sell. The last time I checked the board it looked like over fifty percent of the project was now sold out.”

Instead of looking happy, Patrick looked grim. “Condos aren’t your normal dose of poison, Julie. Are these people friends of yours? How did you wind up working with them?”

“I got them on a floor call while I was covering for Fred. Mr. Harvey is a retired aerospace engineer. They made a little money buying and selling houses when the market was good. That’s why they’re purchasing a condo. They plan to pay cash for it, and whatever is left will be a nest egg for their old age.”

Patrick said nothing for the longest time.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Julie said. “I know how much that project means to you. You risked everything when you decided to build it.”

His shrugged his wide shoulders, rustling his custom-fitted Oxford-cloth shirt. “In the beginning, I may have felt that way. Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because now other people are involved. When I couldn’t get the construction money I needed, I had to take in partners. Lately they’ve been calling most of the shots.”

He shoved back his chair and came to his feet, then leaned toward her over the desk. With those piercing blue eyes and hard jaw, he could look darned intimidating when he wanted to. “I’ll give you a word of advice, Julie—I shouldn’t but I will. Put your clients in some other deal. Something that isn’t so risky. That’s all I’m going to say on the subject and if anyone asks, I never said anything at all. If your people won’t listen, that’s their problem. If they still want the property on Monday and the price is right, they’ve bought themselves a new home.”

“You took an offer from Fred’s clients, why don’t you want this one?”

Instead of giving her an answer, he turned away. “I’ve got to go.” Reaching behind him, he jerked his black Italian-cut sports jacket off the wooden valet in the corner. “I just remembered something I have to do.”

“Wait a minute, Patrick, I don’t understand why all of a sudden—”

“See you later, Julie.” And then he was gone.

Julie stared after him, wondering how he always managed to leave her speechless.

Val tried to concentrate on the screen, review the notes on his latest experiment, but he felt restless. In nearly half a lifetime, he hadn’t learned the virtue of patience. He wondered if he ever would.

For the sixth time since his arrival in the lab, he turned to his message file, hoping to find some news, then sighed inwardly when he found nothing there. It had been nearly a full month since the council had agreed to his plan. Initial preparations had been made. Now he was forced to wait.

The mission could not be accomplished until a suitable donor was found. In order for that to happen, a death had to occur. Sophisticated computer calculations had come up with a list of possible candidates, people who lived or worked in close proximity to the Ferris subject.

The data had shown a ninety-percent probability that one of the primary donor candidates would face a life-threatening occurrence within ninety days; a seventy-percent chance it would happen in less than sixty; and a fifty-percent chance it would happen within thirty days from the date the calculations were made.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t.

Unfortunately for him, he reminded himself, but not for the donor. Still, there was nothing personal involved. Now that the project was underway, he just wanted to get on with it.

He punched up a row of symbols. Though he knew the information well, he found himself returning to the donor file. The Alexander Donovan candidate was predicted to be the most likely. He was the eldest and in the worst physical condition. He was also the least desirable. He had no use of his legs and less access to the Ferris woman than the others.

The Fred Thompkins candidate was closer to the subject since he worked in her office. His heart was unstable and he could suffer a heart attack at any time. Unfortunately, as with the previous candidate, he was still much older, and he had only limited subject contact.

Perhaps, he thought, he should be grateful that so far nothing had happened. It was the Patrick Donovan candidate he really wanted as the donor. Physically the younger Donovan was within his prime years, just as Val was. Donovan’s body was physically abused, but with a little effort on his part, it could be returned to the superior specimen it once was. The man was intelligent, appeared to have plenty of the trading currency used on Earth, and worked in close proximity to the subject.

As her superior, he even had a certain amount of control over her. It was only logical Val should prefer Patrick Donovan over the others.

And from what their sensors had discovered, not only did Donovan have a weak wall in his heart that was on the verge of collapse, his behavior patterns were conducive to hurrying the event along.

Val couldn’t help a small throb of excitement, a rare emotion in his experience, rare, for that matter, for anyone from his planet. Science was everything there. Discoveries were made daily, hourly, becoming almost mundane.

But this was different. Experiencing a new world—not from the outside looking in, as they had been doing for hundreds of years. But from the inside—from an actual functioning position within the world they studied. Though he would technically be there to discover the reason for the Ferris woman’s exceptional resistance, it was the knowledge of Earth in general that Val found so intriguing.

He punched in the symbols and opened another computer file, deciding to reread the reports he had requested, observations, limited though they were, made by his predecessors during their brief stay on Earth. There wasn’t much, he knew. The process called Unification had only been done a few times, and never for any duration.

Still it was something. When the time came for him to go, he wanted to be prepared.

Patrick Donovan reached for the rolled-up hundred-dollar bill lying on the acrylic coffee table in front of the sofa in his penthouse apartment. “How ’bout another little toot, baby?”

Anna Braxston smiled. She was a classy piece of ass, no doubt about it. In her long, slinky, black-sequined dress, her blond hair piled up in soft waves on top of her head, she looked like she’d just walked off a page out of Vogue. She was almost as tall as he was in her high-heeled shoes, though the shoes had come off long ago, along with the dress and all but the skimpy little peach satin teddy she was wearing.

“Thanks, honey.” She set her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, a fine thread of smoke drifting up. He’d been trying to quit, but what the hell? He reached over and took a long lung-filling draw, let the smoke drift out through his nostrils.

Anna took the rolled-up bill, leaned over and snorted a long line of powdery cocaine up her nose. A second line followed. She wiped the residue away, leaned over and rubbed a coke-laden finger across his lips, but he was too far gone to feel the numbing sensation.

He poured a shot of tequila into his glass and tossed it back, grimaced at the fiery taste, and took the bill from her hand. Another line of coke disappeared, then another. She was after him to do a speedball—half heroin, half cocaine. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that…then again, maybe later….

He leaned back on the gray wool sofa, felt her long supple fingers running through his curly black chest hair. He was already hard. She unzipped his navy blue slacks, the only clothes he still had on, reached inside his fly and freed his erection, then began to gently stroke him.

“You like that, don’t you,” she purred. It wasn’t a question. She’d have to be a fool to think he didn’t. Sex was the only thing he liked more than booze and drugs, the only thing that still gave him the kind of kicks he’d always needed. Everything else seemed bland in comparison, and he had tried them all.

Sports cars when he was in high school. Motorcycle racing after that. He had run the European circuit two years in a row, staying on to ski the winter in St. Moritz. He’d gotten his pilot’s license, bought an old P-38, had it completely refitted, flown it in the Reno Air Races and come in third, then gotten bored and sold it for less than he’d paid for it. He’d tried skydiving. Not bad. Especially after he had done it high on cocaine.

With no responsibilities, no one to answer to but a father who was buried to his bushy gray eyebrows in work, and more money than any kid his age had a right to have, he figured why not enjoy himself? And so he always had.

Anna’s lips moved over his hardened length, stroking him like a pro. His muscles flexed. He thrust upward and groaned. When she stopped for a moment to help him slide on a condom, he propped his back against the sofa, pulled her teddy off over her head, cupped her buttocks, and dragged her up on top of him, spreading her long legs until she straddled him.

“Oh, yes,” Anna whispered. “Give it to me, honey.”

He’d give it to her, all right. All she could take and more. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, felt her soft little breasts pressing into his chest. Her nipples were hard and distended. She was slick and hot, gloving his erection neatly.

“Hand me a popper,” he said as he flexed his hips, moving in and out with a slow rhythm that had her panting and squirming. She picked the drug up off the end table, neatly broke the capsule in half, and shoved it under his nose.

God, what a rush.

He ground himself deeper, thrust into her harder, fought to hold his climax in check. He liked it this way, being in control, setting the pace.

Doing something to please somebody besides himself.

But then he liked it just about any way he could get it. Not very personal, he supposed. Not very meaningful. Just more kicks to keep him going, something to help him tolerate the empty, vacuous days.

Something to distract him from the money he was losing, the father he’d disappointed, the mess he had made of his life.

Coming in from the parking lot, Julie walked in the back door of the office just in time to see Patrick walking out the front.

“Patrick! Patrick, wait a minute! I’ve got to talk to you!” She was late getting to work. She’d gone by to see Dr. Heraldson, Laura’s psychiatrist, who had asked for a meeting to discuss Laura’s childhood, hoping he might uncover something that would help him understand what Laura was going through. Dr. Marsh, their family physician, had found nothing physically wrong with her, but Laura’s paranoia had continued to increase, and her nightmares were getting worse. Julie wished she knew what to do.

She glanced ahead to Patrick’s tall retreating figure. “Damn it, Patrick!” She raced down the sidewalk in pursuit, but didn’t catch up with him until he’d reached the corner. “Where the hell are you going in such an all-fired hurry?” Panting with exertion, she leaned against the lamp post, watched Patrick’s long dark fingers punch the button on the light so he could cross the street.

“I’ve got a lunch date with Anna.” He turned to face her, winked, and flashed her a cocky, wicked grin. “Want to come along?”

It was the first time today that she had actually seen his face, and something clenched hard in her stomach. “My God, Patrick, what in the world have you done to yourself?”

His fine black brows drew together in a frown. “Give me a break, will you? So I’m a little washed out. I haven’t had a chance to catch any rays lately.”

He started across the street, but Julie caught his arm. “This is serious, Patrick. Your face is so pale it’s practically blue. Something’s wrong. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

“I’m fine. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“More problems with the Rabinoff closing. I thought maybe you could help.” She stopped him the minute they reached the curb on the opposite side of the street. “Patrick, your health is more important than any closing. Something is seriously wrong with you. For once in your life, please, will you listen?”

He stopped in the alley outside The Grill, a nearby restaurant that was a local haunt for movie higher-ups: producers, directors, agents, a few hopeful starlets and a lot of hangers-on. “I’ve got a little heartburn, okay? I’ll be fine just as soon as I eat.”

Julie’s face turned nearly as pale as Patrick’s. “You’re having chest pains?”

“Heartburn. That’s all it is. I took some Maalox tablets. In a few more minutes, they’ll kick in and I’ll feel great.”

“Patrick, listen to me—” She took a deep breath, terrified he wouldn’t, since he never had before.

Before she could finish, Patrick swayed and leaned against the wall, one hand flat against it, the other sliding up the lapel of his coat, stopping somewhere near his empty breast pocket. His breath seemed to catch on a heavy gasp of air, and his eyes looked suddenly frightened.

“Julie…” The words passed through lips that were dry and the same pale color as his face.

“Oh, my God!”

His legs turned to rubber. He swayed and slid down the wall, coming to rest slumped over at the bottom. Beads of perspiration popped out across his forehead and dampened the black hair at his temple.

“Somebody help us!” Julie looked frantically toward the people passing by on the sidewalk just a few feet away. “Please…somebody call 911!” A few heads swiveled in their direction, but no one ran into the alley or even started walking their way.

Julie fumbled with her purse, finally found her cell phone and made the call herself. She was shaking by the time she finished.

She forced a note of calm into her voice. “Take it easy, Patrick. Help is on the way.” She didn’t know if he could hear her, but it gave her a feeling of being back in control. Up ahead, the valet in front of The Grill had just hopped into a big white Mercedes-Benz and driven away.

No help there.

She didn’t know CPR. For years she had been going to take a class, but there never seemed to be enough time. Leaving Patrick on the sidewalk, she raced to the shiny brass doors of the restaurant, pulled one of them open and rushed inside.

“Please, you have to help me,” she said to the dark-haired maître d’. “Patrick Donovan’s on the sidewalk outside. I think he’s having a heart attack. Is there someone here who can do CPR?”

“I know Patrick,” the man said. “He’s too young to be having a heart attack. It’s probably just gas or something.”

“It isn’t just gas! You’ve got to help us! Patrick may be dying!”

He went into action then, telling her not to worry, hurrying toward the paging system and asking if there was a doctor in the house. Julie raced back outside. By now a small crowd had gathered. She shouldered her way toward a man in a navy blue suit leaning over Patrick’s now unconscious form.

“A-are you a doctor?”

“No.” The slender man stood up and backed away. “I’m a stockbroker. But I checked for a pulse and I couldn’t find one. I don’t think he’s breathing.”

Julie swallowed past a growing lump of fear. “Do you know CPR?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Is there anyone here who does?” When no one in the small, worried crowd answered, she steeled herself. She had seen it done, but she had never tried it. Still, someone had to do something and fast. “Well then,” she said, forcing a note of authority into her voice. “Get out of my way so I can get to work.”

They wouldn’t let her ride with him in the ambulance. She wasn’t his next of kin, after all, and he still wasn’t breathing on his own. His heart had not responded to her clumsy efforts at CPR and the ambulance seemed to have taken forever to get there.

Julie drove like a woman possessed all the way to Cedar Sinai Hospital. She hadn’t called Patrick’s father yet, afraid the news might cause Alex to have another stroke. Better to wait, see what the doctors had to say.

Better to pray that Patrick was still alive when she got there.

On trembling legs, she shoved through the glass doors into the reception area and hurried toward the information desk, stopped at the counter, afraid to ask, afraid she already knew the answer.

She had called Babs on her cell, had found her at the office, which wasn’t too far away. Now the sight of her friend’s purposeful, no-nonsense strides as she pushed through the front doors into the lobby gave Julie a shot of courage. She took a slow, bracing breath and worked to calm her thundering heart.

With a small silent prayer, she turned toward the desk and spoke to the gray-haired receptionist, who looked at her over the top of her gold-rimmed reading glasses.

“May I help you?”

“Yes. I’m here to inquire about a friend…Patrick Donovan. They just brought him in.” The woman began to search the names on her computer screen while Julie stood tensely, running her tongue over her trembling lips.

“How is he?” Babs asked when she reached Julie’s side.

“I-I don’t know yet.” They both turned to stare at the woman.

“His condition is listed as stable,” she said, the age lines around her mouth puckering unbecomingly. Too many years in a job where it was all too easy for people to become merely numbers. “He’s been taken to intensive care, but he can’t have visitors, only immediate family.”

“We are immediate family,” they both said in unison, then looked over at each other and grinned, light-headed with relief. At least he was still alive.

“I thought you said he was a friend,” the woman reminded her tartly, her rheumy eyes suspicious above the rim of her glasses.

“Well, he is,” Julie agreed. “But he’s also our brother.”

The receptionist eyed her with suspicion, but one hard look from Babs and she pointed a bony finger down the hall.

“Take the elevator up to the third floor. Follow the signs. They’ll tell you where to go from there.”

“Thanks,” Julie said as they walked away, thinking it was time she called Alex, but first she wanted to speak to the doctors.

Babs pushed the elevator button. “At least he isn’t dead,” she said with her usual bluntness.

“He nearly was.” Julie nervously plucked a speck of lint from the front of her pink linen suit. “His heart had stopped and he wasn’t breathing. I was afraid he wasn’t going to make it.”

“It’s the damned drugs and booze. We’ve both been telling him for years that one day it would kill him.”

“Maybe now that this has happened, he’ll listen. Sometimes a close call with death can make a person change.”

Babs flashed her a look of disbelief. “Don’t get your hopes up, honey. Nothing is going to change Patrick Donovan. Between his motorcycle races and his skiing, he’s had half a dozen close calls. He hasn’t changed a lick and this time won’t be one bit different.”

Julie knew she was right, but it still hurt to admit it.

Patrick would always be Patrick.

Yet the memory of him lying on the sidewalk, of his pale, waxen face and blue, bloodless lips—the terrible thought of him dying—was enough to make her heart pump painfully again.