Читать книгу Seduced By The Hero - Pamela Yaye - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Pain racked Dionne’s body, stabbed every inch of her five-foot-two frame, making it impossible to move. She tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. Her limbs were cold, shivering uncontrollably, and her forearms ached. Where am I?

Sniffing the air, she detected the faint scent of flowers, and a delicious, masculine cologne that evoked thoughts of French kisses, red wine and dirty dancing. Cologne?

Panic soaked her skin. Her head felt groggy, as if she’d had one too many cocktails last night during happy hour. Did I have a one-night stand? Did I follow some guy home from the bar? Am I lying in bed with him right now? Dionne deleted the thought, refused to believe it, not even for a second. She’d never hook up with a random stranger, and besides, she’d worked at the office late last night, not gone for drinks at her favorite martini bar with her sisters.

Listening intently, Dionne soaked in the world around her. She heard the buzz and whirl of monitors and machines, a TV blaring, felt a coarse material rubbing against her skin. An intercom came on, and realization dawned. I’m in the hospital. Why? What happened? Was I in a car accident? Did I crash my Lexus— Before Dionne could finish the thought, memories flooded her mind. Leaving her office...someone sneaking up behind her...fighting him off...the crippling blow to the head.

Dionne struggled to get air into her lungs. It felt as though a bowling ball were sitting on her chest. Taking a deep breath, she broke free of the violent images holding her hostage. She wouldn’t think about it. Wouldn’t allow her attacker to victimize her in the privacy of her thoughts. Holding herself tight, she told herself she’d survived, that everything was okay. She was alive, safe, and he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

With great difficulty, Dionne forced her eyes open. The room was bright, the air still and quiet. She lifted her blanket and gasped when she saw the cuts and bruises all over her body. The wristband on her left arm listed her name and health care number. More questions remained. Dionne continued to take in her surroundings. A wooden chair sat at the foot of the bed, a crystal vase overflowing with roses was displayed on the side table, and a tall, slim man in a black power suit stood in front of the window.

Dionne narrowed her gaze, sized him up. She needed to know who the stranger was and why he was in her hospital room. Was he a cop? Giving herself permission to stare, she admired his profile. The man was a force. A six-foot-six Adonis with olive skin, a full head of jet-black hair and a lean physique. He had specks of salt in his goatee and an imposing presence. He was a man of influence, someone who made things happen, who wasn’t afraid of taking swift and decisive action. Dionne guessed he was in his thirties, but wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was older. Is he a doctor? she wondered, noting his designer threads.

The stranger must have sensed her watching him, because he turned toward the bed and met her gaze. The faint scar along his left cheek only enhanced his rugged, masculine look, and his piercing blue eyes were lethal weapons.

A slow, easy smile crept across his lips.

Dionne’s heart skipped a beat, drummed in her ears. She instantly recognized him, knew exactly who the drop-dead sexy stranger was. He wasn’t a doctor. He was a Morretti. Had to be. No doubt about it. He had a straight nose and a strong jawline, and looked like an older version of Emilio.

Months earlier, before things went south with her employee Brad McClendon, Dionne had researched Mastermind Operations online. She’d planned to hire Immanuel Morretti’s security company to help Brad find his estranged wife and sons. But since Brad had quit and taken his celebrity clients with him, she’d changed her mind about helping him reconnect with his family.

Dionne thought hard. She never forgot a name or a face and recalled everything she’d read about the Italian businessman on his agency’s website. He’d spent five years in the Italian military in the special forces division, and had worked for a decade as a personal bodyguard before opening his security business in Venice. On the website, she’d seen pictures of Immanuel with dignitaries, celebrities and high-ranking government officials, and according to the Italian newspaper La Repubblica, his agency was second to none.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fontaine.”

He spoke with a thick Italian accent, one she was sure drove women wild, but his expression was one of concern. Questions stirred her curiosity, made her wonder why Emilio’s brother was in her hospital room. Did Sharleen send Immanuel over to check on her after hearing about her attack? Is that why he was there?

“How are you feeling?”

Dionne cleared her throat and found her voice. “I’m sore, and more than a little confused,” she admitted sheepishly.

“My apologies. Let me introduce myself. I’m—”

“Immanuel Morretti,” she provided, pulling herself up to a sitting position.

Surprise showed on his face, coloring his eyes. Immanuel looked rich, like the kind of man who dined nightly on wine and caviar. He carried himself in a dignified way. Thanks to her master’s degree in psychology, Dionne was skilled at reading people, and instinctively felt the security specialist was someone she could trust. “You’re Emilio’s brother and the CEO of Mastermind Operations.”

“You’re a World Series racing fan?” he questioned, fine lines wrinkling his forehead. “I never would have guessed it.”

“Emilio’s engaged to Sharleen Nichols, the VP of my life coaching center. I’ve gotten to know him over the last few months. He’s a great guy, and he treats Sharleen like gold.”

Dionne watched his face darken, saw his jaw clench tight, and wondered what was wrong. Are the brothers still estranged? Is that why Immanuel looks pissed? Because I complimented his brother?

“Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink, perhaps?”

“No thanks. I’m fine,” she replied, shaking her head. “Where am I?”

“At the Atlanta Medical Center. You were robbed outside of your office last night.”

Her eyes grew moist, and her lips trembled, but she willed herself to keep it together. “I remember,” she said quietly. “But why am I here? I’m fine.”

“You were unconscious when I arrived on scene.”

“You were there? You saw what happened?”

“Yes, Mrs. Fontaine, I did.” Immanuel glanced away and slid his hands into the front pocket of his pants. “I was shopping at Peachtree Plaza when I heard a commotion and ran over.”

“You scared off the assailant... You—you saved my life.”

“No, I didn’t. You did.” His gaze was filled with awe, and it seeped into his tone. “To be honest, I came to rescue your attacker. You gave him one hell of a beating, and I was scared if I didn’t intervene you’d kill him.”

Dionne beamed, feeling a glimmer of pride at his words. “Serves him right for attacking me. He’s lucky I forgot my pepper spray at home, or I would have emptied the entire bottle on him.”

Like his voice, his laugh was pleasing to her ears and brought a smile to her lips.

“You’re a brave woman, Mrs. Fontaine. A woman of incredible strength and heart, and you should be very proud of yourself. Few people would have been able to fight the way you did, and I’m blown away by your courage.”

Moved by his words, she soaked up his praise. “Please, call me Dionne.”

“Only if you call me Immanuel. All my friends do.”

Her thoughts returned to last night, and dread flooded her body. Dionne was curious about what had transpired after Immanuel arrived on scene, and was hoping he could fill in the blanks for her. “What happened after I blacked out? Did the mugger steal my purse?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, and your Lexus as well.”

“Oh, no. My whole world was inside my purse. My wallet, my address book, my iPad.” A chilling thought entered her mind. “The mugger knows where I live. What if he’s at my house right now? Lying in wait?”

Immanuel strode over to the bed and took her hand in his. He was a calm and comforting presence. Having him nearby made Dionne feel supported and less afraid. She didn’t know if it was because he looked like Emilio—a man she thought was considerate, compassionate and kind—or his warm disposition. But she liked his touch and drew strength from him. “I don’t have a security system at my new place. I’ve been meaning to install one, but I’ve been so busy with work I haven’t had the time.”

“I know it’s upsetting, but try not to worry. The police are investigating...”

What good will that do if the mugger attacks me in my sleep?

“I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of calling one of my technicians to change the locks at your house and office,” he explained. “And if you’d like, he can also install voice-activated alarm systems at both locations.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“I’m a security specialist. That’s my job.”

Dionne felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Thank you, Mr. Morretti. I appreciate it. At least I know the crook isn’t in my house, robbing me blind.” She was glad Immanuel was there. “Have the cops identified my attacker? Do they know who he is? Have they found my car?”

“No, not yet, but they assured me they’re working hard on the case.”

“Where’s my cell phone? I need to call my family or they’ll be worried sick.”

Immanuel released her hand and stroked the length of his jaw. “I’m not sure if detectives recovered it at the scene, but you can ask them when they come to take your statement—”

The door swung open, and a slender fiftysomething nurse burst into the room. Her shoes squeaked as she approached the bed, and her frizzy white hair flapped around her face. “Good day, Mrs. Fontaine. How are you feeling this glorious afternoon?”

“Afternoon?” Dionne repeated, confused by her words. “What time is it?”

Immanuel checked his Rolex watch. “It’s twelve fifteen.”

“I’ve been sleeping for more than fourteen hours?” she asked, unable to believe it.

“You experienced a traumatic event last night and suffered a mild concussion,” the nurse explained. “You need your rest, and for the next few days you’ll have to take it easy.”

Dionne didn’t need rest; she needed a stiff drink, something with a shot of Patrón in it. But she knew her serious, no-nonsense nurse would never honor her request. “I’m thirsty,” she said, touching her throat. “May I please get a cup of green tea?”

“Of course. Just let me check your vitals first. I wanted to do it earlier, at the start of my shift, but you were sleeping soundly and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You need your privacy,” Immanuel said. “I’ll wait outside.”

No. Dionne opened her mouth to ask him to stay, but he was gone in the blink of an eye.

* * *

“Why did you fight back?” Detective Sluggs asked with a bewildered expression on his fat, fleshy face. “You could have been kidnapped, or worse, killed.”

“No, he could have been killed, because I wasn’t going down without a fight.”

The emergency room doctor, a twentysomething brunette with Prada eyeglasses, scrunched up her nose. “I see cases like this every day, and it always amazes me that people are willing to risk their lives over something as trivial as a car.”

“It’s not about the car,” Dionne shot back, annoyed that they were giving her a hard time about the choices she’d made last night. “I work hard for the things I have, and no one has the right to take them from me. That’s why I fought back.”

The doctor and the detective had entered her room ten minutes earlier, just as she was finishing lunch. But five minutes into the interview Dionne had already decided she didn’t like either one of them, especially Detective Sluggs. He was curt and condescending, and his head was so shiny it looked as though it had been polished with Pledge. Dionne couldn’t wait for him to leave. She’d had a busy morning and needed to rest. With the help of her nurse, she’d called the credit card companies, requested her accounts be canceled, then called her parents. She didn’t tell them about the attack or that she was at the hospital, and had to cut the conversation short when her mom told her to make amends with Jules before their November court date.

“Fighting back only makes things worse,” Detective Sluggs said. “You should have given the mugger your purse, handed over your car keys, and gotten the hell out of the way.”

Dionne hit the veteran detective with a cold, dark stare. Why does Detective Sluggs have to be such a jerk? Why can’t he be sympathetic and understanding like Immanuel? Taking a deep breath, she asked the question burning the tip of her tongue. “Is that the kind of advice you give your wife?”

“I’m not married.”

Why am I not surprised? Of course you’re single. You’re a chauvinist pig, just like my ex.

“If you had cooperated with the perp, you wouldn’t have been hurt,” he continued, his tone thick with condemnation. “Next time you’re tempted to do something heroic, don’t, because it could cost you your life. A lot of these criminals are addicts, and the last thing you want to do is antagonize someone high on crack or crystal meth.”

“Detective Sluggs is right,” the doctor agreed, fervently nodding her head. “It’s better to lose your car than to be beaten in the streets.”

Dionne hung her head, stared down at her hands. Were they right? Had she acted reckless last night? Tears rolled down her cheeks, splashed onto her cheap blue hospital gown. But when Dionne heard Immanuel’s voice in her head, she slapped them away.

You’re a brave woman, Mrs. Fontaine. A woman of incredible strength and heart, and you should be very proud of yourself. Few people would have been able to fight the way you did, and I’m blown away by your courage.

“You shouldn’t have been on your cell phone. That was your first mistake.”

Her head whipped up, and her eyes narrowed. She felt her blood pressure rise, with the urge to smack Detective Sluggs upside his lumpy bald head. Orange wasn’t the new black, and since Dionne didn’t want to be arrested for assaulting a cop, she wisely kept her hands in her lap. “Are you saying the attack was my fault? That I’m to blame for what happened?”

Detective Sluggs made a sympathetic face, but his gaze was dark, and his voice was filled with accusation. “Perpetrators prowl the streets looking for people who are distracted, and you made yourself an easy target...”

Dionne pursed her lips so she wouldn’t end up doing something stupid like cursing him out. Although she was annoyed, she gave the detective the floor to speak. And did he ever. He went on and on, spewing his opinions.

“I suspect this was a random, drug-fueled attack, but I want to cover all the bases.” He flipped open his white spiral notebook and scanned the first page. “Mrs. Fontaine, do you have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt you or scare you?”

Do I have any enemies? Yeah, the entire Fontaine family. Jules’s older sister, Adeline, had never liked her, and the feeling was definitely mutual. The executive accountant was a control freak who wasn’t happy unless she was calling the shots, and Dionne couldn’t stand her. There was no love lost between Dionne and her in-laws, but they had nothing to do with the attack. “No, no one I can think of,” she answered truthfully. “My husband and I are legally separated and in the process of getting a divorce, but Jules would never do anything to hurt me.”

“Don’t be so sure. Divorce brings out the worst in people.”

Desperate to change the subject, she asked, “Where’s my cell phone?”

“We found it smashed to smithereens in the parking lot last night.”

Disappointment flooded her body, but the loss of her iPhone was the least of her problems. Anxious to end the interview and leave the hospital, Dionne addressed her doctor. “Have my test results come back?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing at the sheets of paper attached to a metal clipboard. “Your CT scan was normal, and you don’t seem to have any lingering effects from the concussion. But I’d like you to see the hospital psychologist before I discharge you.”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“I strongly advise you not to leave. You suffered a traumatic event less than twenty-four hours ago, and it’s imperative you speak to a professional to discuss the attack.”

“I concur,” Detective Sluggs said, stroking his bushy mustache with tender loving care.

Dionne glanced from the detective to the doctor and rolled her eyes to show her frustration. They were giving her a headache, and she was anxious to get away from them. Determined to leave the hospital, whether or not the doctor signed the discharge papers, Dionne searched the room for her clothes. Her Escada pantsuit was probably ripped and dirty, but it was all she had. Besides, she wasn’t going to a black-tie event at the W hotel; she would be headed to her office. By the time she arrived at Pathways Center, her staff would be gone for the day, so she wouldn’t have to worry about anyone seeing her bruised face.

“I have to return to the precinct, but if you remember anything else about the attack, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Detective Sluggs promised to be in touch and left the room.

Finally. I thought he’d never leave. Dionne checked the time on the clock. Immanuel should be back any minute now. For some reason, the thought of seeing him again excited her and made a smile balloon inside her heart. He’d spent the entire afternoon with her, and talking to him about her career had momentarily taken her mind off the assault. Though he was serious and soft-spoken, he made her laugh and told amusing stories about his life in Venice. He’d offered to go to the store for her, and Dionne eagerly awaited his return, because once he arrived with the items she’d requested, she was leaving. She was tired of being in the hospital and was anxious to leave, but first she had to get Dr. Pelayo off her back. “I don’t need to talk to anyone,” she said, speaking calmly, in her most serious voice. “I have a master’s degree in psychology, and I know what to do to preserve my mental health. Now, kindly bring the discharge papers so I can sign them and leave.”

The silence was so loud it drowned out every other noise in the room. Sunshine seeped through the window blinds, filling the drab, boring space with light, but it did nothing to brighten Dionne’s mood. She was frustrated that Dr. Pelayo wasn’t listening to her and was losing patience.

“Very well,” the doctor said after a long moment. “If you insist.”

“Thank you, Dr. Pelayo. I appreciate everything you and your staff have done for me.”

“I’ll have the discharge papers waiting at the front desk within the hour. Who will be picking you up and driving you home?”

Confusion must have shown on Dionne’s face, because Dr. Pelayo continued.

“Someone has to pick you up upon discharge and escort you out of the building,” she explained, tucking her clipboard under her arm. “The policy was put in place decades ago to ensure that all patients at Atlanta Medical Center remain safe after their stay—”

“I’m not a child,” Dionne argued. “And I won’t be treated like one.”

The intercom came on, and the women fell silent.

Sitting in bed, doing a slow burn, Dionne pictured herself jumping out her fifth-floor window and running away from the hospital. Who do I have to bribe to get the hell out of here? she wondered, trying to keep her temper at bay. And who came up with this stupid discharge policy? It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I won’t adhere to it.

“I have to release you into the care of a loved one, preferably someone who can stay with you for the rest of the day.” Dr. Pelayo’s face softened with concern. “Victims often feel fearful after an attack, so it’s important you’re not alone over the next twenty-four hours. Isn’t there a friend or family member I can call to pick you up?”

“I don’t want anyone hovering over me. I’d rather be alone.”

“I understand, Mrs. Fontaine, and I’m not trying to be difficult, but it’s hospital policy, and if I break the rules I could lose my job.”

Disappointed, Dionne collapsed against the pillows. Will this nightmare ever end?