In a Heartbeat (7 page)

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In a Heartbeat

her arms braced against opposite walls, limped down the hallway of closed doors.

The first door on the left opened to a small no-frills bedroom with French doors to the back terrace. After checking to make sure the door to the hall had a lock, she fell on the bed, her ankle aching more than she cared to admit. She rolled to her back, checking for an adjoining bathroom. “Rats,” she muttered, partially to relieve the eerie silence of the nearly deserted house. “There has to be a bathroom around here someplace.”

Pushing herself off the bed, she negotiated her way back into the hall without the heavy shoulder bag. She opened a door on the opposite wall and knew immediately she had stumbled into his office. The fresh manly scent that had earlier evoked images of a light-dappled forest, now brought thoughts of a flashing dimple and warm, assessing, gray eyes.

She drew a deep breath. His essence drifted through her, pooling deep inside. Instantly, she felt transported back to earlier that afternoon when he had held her in his arms. Her head had rested on his shoulder. Her ankle had throbbed like hell.

A shudder leaped up her spine.
Silly,
she scolded herself.
He’s dating
a model.
A man like Renard—handsome, intelligent, successful—a man like that would have no interest in her.

She quickly scanned his desk and the book-laden shelves, half expecting to see a photograph of Elizabeth Everett mocking her from an ornate silver frame. But there were no photos. A laptop computer, similar to hers, sat on the desk, waiting for its owner to bring it humming to life.

A phone rested in close reach of the computer.

She looked past the elaborate wall unit of bookcases to the adjoining room. Curiosity and a few awkward steps carried her to his bedroom. The carefully made king-size bed framed by four massive bedposts caught her by surprise. Her bed at home still had the sheets tossed back from when she had left it that morning. Guilt twinges increased as she looked around the room. Clean. Sharp. Masculine. A prickling at her neck warned her she shouldn’t be here, but she couldn’t resist.

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Oreo’s nails rapidly clicked across the great room. Panic struck. She bit her lip. If he found her here in his room, he might draw the wrong conclusions. At least, that’s what those television shows implied. A part of her hesitated, curious to explore those conclusions. But the more practical side of her nature urged her to run. Running, of course, was impossible. Even sneaking out of the room would be difficult, given her unsteady gait.

Holding her breath to soften the pain, she hobbled slowly, quietly, expecting any moment to hear his heavy footsteps in the hall.

She made it to the door and peeked into the hallway. No Hank.

Backing out, she pulled the door silently closed behind her. Her captive breath flew out in a soft sigh of relief. With a pasted-on smile to hide the burning on her cheeks, she advanced slowly down the hall. She made it to the great room and froze. The smile died on her face.

Hank stood by the chair in front of the newly lit fire, his hand buried deep in her handbag.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Icicles could have hung from her tone.

“There you are.” He smiled, oblivious to her concern. “I need your keys to get your car. I thought…” His brows shifted down as he groped in her bag. “What the hell?” He pulled one of her many prescription pill bottles out for closer inspection. Then another. And another.

Here it comes
, she thought.
He’ll want to know about the pills.
Pity would soften his eyes, lower his voice. He’ll treat her like a fragile doll, an invalid, too delicate to touch, too temporary to care about. A lump twisted in her stomach.

He glanced up at her, four fat amber bottles clutched in his hands, with an equal number still in her purse. The unspoken question mirrored in his eyes. She moistened her lips.

“This is the medicine you mentioned earlier.” He lifted the clattering bottles. “These pills?”

She nodded, her voice buried beneath the lump in her throat.

“Is it HIV?” His voice caught, and concern radiated from his eyes. She hobbled closer.

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“No.” Her lips formed the word, but the sound disappeared in the heated air around them.

Gas from a hissing log popped, sending a shower of sparks to the grate. Frightened, Oreo scrambled behind her legs, knocking her off-balance. Immediately, Hank was there, catching her, offering his strength and support. Her hands went instinctively to his chest. She glanced up, disturbed by the urgency in his eyes. “Tell me,” he practically snarled.

“Are you dying?”

“No,” she repeated. Her pulse pounded in her ears, reminding her of the truth of that statement. The thought brought a faint smile. “I’m fine.”

She pulled her hands back, conscious that his hands remained on her upper arms. “At least, I will be as long as I keep taking those.” She tilted her head toward the pill bottles scattered on the floor.

“Well.” His audible exhale ended with a nervous laugh. His thumbs stroked the top of her shoulders in slow sensuous arcs. He lowered his mouth close to her ear, his warm breath swirled on the back of her neck, raising goose flesh down her body. “Then by all means, keep taking them.”

Her heart pounded. Dangerous. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, “Don’t excite yourself. That can’t be good for your heart.” The memory stiffened her resolve. She stood a little taller. She looked directly in his eyes. Her resolve weakened. Maybe Mom was right.

With a quick smile, he got down on his hands and knees to gather the fallen pill bottles and stuff them back into her purse. Oreo hampered the search, believing this to be a new game invented for her enjoyment.

Angie watched their antics, trying to hold her heart in check. When he brought her the restored handbag, she pulled out her key ring with its identification heart.

His hand closed around the keys. His dimples flashed. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her on the cheek. But he didn’t. Instead he pointed to her purse.

“We’ll talk about this when I return.”

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Donna Richards

Her lips tilted up in a smile she didn’t really feel. He left her standing firmly on her own two feet.

But they didn’t talk later. He returned to an empty, dark house. She was gone.

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There was no answer on her phone. He didn’t leave a message. He drove to her house, but it was dark, no one home. After a long restless night, he tried again on Sunday morning, afternoon and evening to no avail. He couldn’t find her.

Hank pulled out the yellow pages and looked up limousine services.

What was the name of that company she drove for? But before his finger had traveled far down the page, he realized Angela wouldn’t be able to drive with her injured foot. He looked up the brother’s name in the white pages, but to call him would be to betray Angela’s trust, so he didn’t call.

He didn’t call, he didn’t sleep, he couldn’t concentrate and it all made him mad as hell. Why should he care so much about one mere slip of a girl? He didn’t have time for this nonsense, and he certainly couldn’t afford to get involved. Not now. His arrangement with Owens made that impossible.

Still, every time he tried to cram out thoughts of Angela with thoughts of business, the reverse would happen and Angie’s face would chase other concerns away. He’d see her face, stubborn with poorly concealed vulnerability about her eyes, intelligent cornflower blue eyes, and a slim body, not bony like Elizabeth, but soft and feather light, made to fit in a man’s arms. His groin responded to the memory.

Stop this.
He chided himself.
It’s those pills.
They were making him half crazy. She had mentioned she carried medicine in her purse, but he’d never imagined… And now she was out there somewhere, alone and crippled.

His phone rang. He eagerly answered, hoping Angela would be on the other end.

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Donna Richards

“Philip?” The man’s voice was unmistakable.

“Yes, Father.” An awkward silence ensued.

“I received notification of a bank transfer and I wondered if you knew anything about it.”

“Transfer in or out?” Hank feigned innocence. The routing he had used to transfer funds into his father’s account should have concealed his identity, but any good investigator could trace the transfer back to him.

“In. It’s a mere drop in the bucket for the million that was lost.”
On
the stock you recommended.
Hank heard the accusation in his father’s tone if not in his words. “But four hundred thousand will pay a few bills.”

“How’s Mother?” Hank asked abruptly.

“She sends her love. Listen, Philip.” Hank cringed, hating the sound of that name. “You’re not engaged in another fool-hardy scheme, are you? We haven’t recovered from that last stock deal. I don’t want—”

“No, Father, I’m not involved in the stock market anymore.” His father’s loss in the market hung around Hank’s neck like the proverbial albatross, displaying his market speculation as a disgrace to all who could see.

“I just wondered. I saw Jim Owens the other day; he seemed to think you had some sort of announcement to share with your family.”

Hank remained silent. Damn Owens, he had said Hank had two weeks.

“Scandal crosses state lines, Philip. The only real asset a businessman has is his integrity. The family can’t afford—”

“To smear the family name.” Hank finished the familiar quote. “So you’ve told me time and again.”

“Yes, well…if there’s nothing else, I’ll bid you good night then.”

“Good night, Father.”

At the click of the phone, Hank closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the couch. One week had already passed, and Owens was obviously watching the clock. As pleased as Hank was that this 54

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agreement with Owens would provide enough money to repay his family, he wondered if this wasn’t another rash move. The business portion of the agreement, reversing the trend of losses, would be a challenge. But the second part of the agreement, regarding matters of a more personal nature, had his stomach churning in turmoil. Rash decision or not, a deal was a deal, and it was time to put all the parties into play. He couldn’t wait any longer. He picked up the phone and dialed Elizabeth’s number.

* * *

Monday morning, the conference room door flew open with a bang.

“Where is she?”

Max struggled to catch the papers that caught the draft like sails in a regatta. “Excuse me?”

Renard glowered. “Where is Ms. Blake?”

“She had an unexpected doctor’s appointment this morning. I guess she hurt her leg over the weekend.” Max pulled at the tip of his tie. “She should be back this afternoon, though. Would you like me to leave a message?”

“You do that.” Renard’s fists slowly unclenched. “The moment she comes in, I want to see her. You got that?”

Max nodded numbly. “The moment she comes in,” he repeated.

“Good,” Renard snapped. He hesitated as if he had something more to say, then turned and left more sedately than he’d arrived.

“Jesus, Angie.” Max muttered after the door closed. “What have you done now?”

* * *

A timid knock at his doorjamb broke Hank’s concentration. Damn.

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Donna Richards

everyone had been tiptoeing around him, avoiding eye contact. He’d have to do something about that. Later. After the red haze filtered away from his eyes. Damn that woman.

“Mr. Renard?” Cathy, his secretary, nudged her head around the door. “I’m leaving for lunch. Would you like me to bring you something?”

“No,” he grumbled. Worry over Angela’s wellbeing, anxiety over her apparent health problems, to say nothing of the chaotic nature of this company’s financial statements, had his stomach in an uproar. Eating would just add to the indigestion. “I’ll grab something later.” Cathy started to withdraw. “Wait…”

“Yes, sir?” She shielded her body with the office door. “Did you want something?”

He had intended to ask her if Angela had returned yet, but the question might raise some unwanted flags. His secretary waited expectantly, half-in, half-out the door.

“On second thought.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, stretching his arms behind his head. “A sandwich might be just the thing.”

Cathy opened the door a bit farther. “There’s a deli down the street that makes a great Reuben sandwich.”

“That sounds fine.” His stomach turned at the thought of sauerkraut.

He fought to maintain the smile. “Can you bring me back one of those?”

“I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Thanks, Cathy,” he called to the closing door, hoping he’d soothed her apprehension if not his stomach. Opening the desk drawer, he fumbled for a roll of antacids and popped two. Now back to business. He ran his finger down the column of numbers on the paper in front of him.

Something just wasn’t right. The profits on the income statement were far below industry standards. If only he could concentrate without the face of a pale, blonde angel intruding on his thoughts.

“It’s those pills,” he muttered, remembering his shock when he discovered the nest of prescription bottles in her purse. If he knew for a 56

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fact that Angela was well, maybe he could concentrate on business.

That’s why he needed to see her, he told himself. The only reason.

Someone knocked on his door, a little more forcefully this time.
Good
, he thought. That friendly exchange with Cathy must have given her more confidence.

“Come on in, Cathy,” he called, continuing to study the financial report. “Did you forget something?”