About Face

by Fern Michaels

  Blake shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

  “I just need a little time, Blake. While I’ve been locked away all these years, I’m not immune to attraction. Don’t apologize. I’m flattered that you want to be with me.”

  “Trust me, Casey, holding you wasn’t the only thing on my mind. That’s for another time and another place. I’m not a schoolboy. Those packages you tossed on the porch”—he nodded behind him—“is there something in there you can wear, or do you need to borrow something?”

  Casey realized she was still wearing the paper gown. “I have a dress in one of those boxes if you wouldn’t mind getting it for me.”

  Blake grinned and did a perfect Groucho Marx with his eyebrows. “No telling what the genteel ladies of Sweetwater will think if they see you standing on my porch with a paper gown.” Blake grabbed the packages from the porch and tossed them on the sofa.

  The humor of the situation hit Blake at the same time it hit her. They doubled over with laughter, both falling onto the plump cushions. Tears glistened in Blake’s eyes as he watched her rip into the packages.

  “I wonder what Brenda would—”

  “Think of this?” She glanced at her paper dress. “This wouldn’t win any brownie points from the Married Ladies Club.” She went into another fit of laughter. Blake howled, as they visualized the prim and proper Ice Queen dressed as a tablecloth.

  Delighted with the humorous turn of events, Casey took the package containing the iris print dress from its tissue wrapping and shook it out.

  “You can change in here if you want. I’ve got to get something from the office. I’ll be right back.”

  Blake had provided a few moments’ reprieve from her thoughts. He’d also given her something else to think about. Their future relationship.

  Robert Bentley pulled a starched linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped beads of sweat from his forehead. He’d been close, but not close enough.

  Damn her!

  This hadn’t been in his plans.

  He’d prepared for this day for ten years. Now that it was finally here, he wasn’t about to let some loony bitch fuck it up.

  In twenty years his routine hadn’t changed one iota. Nor had his plans changed. He’d been adamant about his rigid routine. A half hour on the treadmill, an hour of weight lifting, and a healthy diet assured him he didn’t look his fifty years.

  He’d continued to operate his failing real estate business as he had when it had flourished for his father. Poor old son of a bitch. If he knew what had become of the business he’d worked so hard to establish, he’d sink to sea level proportions in that swamp he’d been buried in.

  And Norma, his wife. God, what a pathetic woman. The Fultons had been one of the wealthiest families in Sweetwater and could trace their ancestry back to Plymouth Rock. Robert had taken a sudden interest in Norma right after high school. When they married, her father hadn’t quite accepted him into their family. He’d stare down that long patrician nose of his as if Robert were little more than a pile of horse shit.

  Robert had secretly desired more than running his father’s real estate office. He wanted the power that went along with old wealth. Just knowing how close he was at the very moment to achieving a goal that had taken years to materialize gave him a charge that even her powers of seduction couldn’t quell. He wanted all the citizens of Sweetwater to look up to him. He wanted the women to fall at his feet, and that hadn’t been a problem. He’d had so many of Sweetwater’s female population, he sometimes had a hard time remembering just exactly whom he’d bedded. Norma sure as hell hadn’t cared for sex. When they were first married, Robert had tried to be patient with her, telling himself she’d been a naive young virgin. Thirty years later, the dried-up bitch still hadn’t had an orgasm. Or at least not to his knowledge. He’d often wondered if she knew what she’d missed. Poor Norma.

  Then there was the other bitch. She’d sashayed her ass right in front of him in high school. Then she’d been nothing more than poor white trash. His eye had been on dollar signs at the time, not a piece of ass. He knew she’d be a hot one though. Tits that seemed to defy gravity, and her legs were the sexiest he’d ever seen. Social constraints had been the only thing that kept him from plowing that bitch’s field.

  When Reed Edwards married her, Robert secretly thought him the luckiest man in Sweetwater. He didn’t have to pretend to understand a wife who was afraid of sex. That much he knew, because it wasn’t long after they married that Evie became pregnant. He remembered the day she came to his office. It wasn’t long after she’d delivered her nutcase daughter.

  He was alone, going over some paperwork. The door to his office opened, and he looked up, thinking it was Norma there to nag him as was her daily habit. When he saw Evie, he knew his teenage fantasies were about to come true.

  Dressed in a short denim skirt and tight pink T-shirt, her long blond hair tickling a firm ass, all he could do was stare. He’d been even more surprised when she walked over to the French doors and locked them. Primal instinct had taken over at that point. Drawing the shades, he turned and motioned for the vixen of his dreams to follow.

  He remembered her voice had been husky and seductive. “Aren’t you going to ask me if I need anything? I thought that’s what all you real estate men do. Provide a service.” She let her statement hang in the air. The air crackled with electricity. He felt himself harden at the innuendo. He didn’t give Norma a second thought.

  “Well, Mrs. Edwards, I do provide a service to the community. I sell their homes, rent their offices when space is available. Are you here to tell me you’ve got something to sell?”

  Evie, evidently confident in her sexual prowess, walked around his desk and traced a pink-tipped nail across his belt buckle.

  He inhaled and almost forgot to exhale.

  She looked at his erection. Smiling, she proceeded to remove his belt. He stood motionless, letting her hands roam his body. She skimmed her hand along the head of his penis poking out of the top of his undershorts. When she licked her fingertips and traced its glistening tip, he almost exploded.

  “You know what I’m selling, Robert?” she asked.

  Oh, hell yes, he knew what she was selling, and he was damn sure buying.

  “Tell me.” he said through clenched teeth as she found his balls. She cupped them, almost too hard, but he realized at that moment, he wouldn’t have cared how hard she squeezed.

  “This.” She slid on top of his desk and revealed her merchandise.

  His heart rate quadrupled when he saw she wore nothing under her short denim skirt. She parted her legs, and Robert gasped at what he saw.

  “You like?” she teased.

  Like didn’t cover it.

  She lifted her top, displaying firm round breasts with small nipples.

  He’d had plenty of sex in his lifetime, but he couldn’t wait any longer. His penis throbbed as if it were ready to blow up. He wasn’t sure that wouldn’t happen when he came. He held back, wanting to enjoy every minute of this sexual fantasy come to life.

  He lifted her skirt up around her waist, not caring about anything except delving his tongue into her hot center. He licked her until she writhed in ecstasy. His tongue felt like a hot spear. He darted in between her soft folds. She bucked up and down, thrusting herself at him. Her body shook as she climaxed. She almost choked him to death with her legs wrapped around his neck.

  “My God, Robert! Look what you missed in high school,” she said when one last shudder racked her body.

  Robert was about to slip his engorged penis into her, when she slid off the desk.

  She adjusted her clothes and laughed. She walked out of his office, leaving him with a hard-on so big, he had to resort to his boyhood practices....

  Now, lost in his sexual daydreams, Robert barely had enough time to cover his erection when Becky, his secretary, came in reminding him of his current dilemma.

  “Ha
ven’t I told you to knock?” he snapped.

  “Sorry. But I thought this was important.”

  It’d better be or she’d have to go. Break a rule, say bye-bye. Rule number one: Never come into his office without knocking. He’d instilled that rule years ago, since he still had occasional sex on his desk.

  “What is it, Becky? I have work to do.”

  “Dr. Hunter just called. He’s asked to see Ms. Edwards’s medical records. He left his fax number for you. He faxed over a medical release form signed by Ms. Edwards.”

  Now, when things were just beginning to fall in place, that psycho stepdaughter of John Worthington’s had to come home. He’d been unable to stall any longer. She was out.

  He’d spent his years as director of Sanctuary doing everything in his power to prevent her release, and now, that doctor he’d hired fifteen years ago was about to ruin everything.

  He’d chosen only the most incompetent staff to work at Sanctuary. When a position opened up for a psychiatrist, Robert made damn sure to hire a doctor who had a blemish on his record. Like that bastard Dr. Macklin. Although he’d surprised him this time.

  Robert had insisted that the Worthington family wanted Casey to continue with the therapy and her medication as usual. He’d explained the tragic circumstances that led to Casey’s commitment. He’d also told the doctor to report any progress to him. Robert had explained that her charts were to be locked away each night and only he and Dr. Macklin were to have the key. Unbeknown to Dr. Macklin, Robert had kept a duplicate copy of her chart. Never mind that a few things had been added here and there.

  This had been fine until Robert learned that Dr. Macklin had outsmarted him.

  Early in his career Dr. Macklin had been fired from Mercy Mental Hospital in Savannah. He’d allowed a patient diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic a weekend furlough. Apparently the patient, a young black woman in her early twenties, went berserk. A search found her in the home of her ex-boyfriend. She’d hung herself.

  Dr. Macklin had been termed a “no hire.” He’d been only too glad to do as Robert instructed, although Robert knew he could never reveal too much. A bonus here and there, an occasional cruise, kept Dr. Macklin in the palm of his hand. Until two months ago.

  Robert had been busy trying to save face with Norma, who’d recently learned of his many indiscretions. He hadn’t noticed the sudden withdrawal of Ms. Edwards’s medications as noted on her chart. Nor had he noticed her walking about the corridors of Sanctuary. He had no idea that she actually helped the staff with the domestic chores required at the small hospital, and had been doing so off and on for weeks.

  To preserve his and Sanctuary’s reputation, he’d told the Worthington family on more than one occasion of all the experiments they’d tried and how the outcome had always been a failure. If Casey were ever to regain her memory, it would be by some other means than medical science.

  Then the good Dr. Macklin had requested a meeting with him, which in itself was unusual.

  It seemed the family of the young girl who’d committed suicide hadn’t believed their daughter would do such a thing. She’d been sick long before her family admitted her to Mercy. They knew their daughter, and she would never take her own life. They went on to say that Dr. Macklin, whose judgment they’d trusted immensely, told them Amy might even be able to function in normal society. She was improving daily, according to the doctor.

  When Dr. Macklin was fired from Mercy, the family begged and pleaded with the local police to investigate Amy’s former boyfriend, Jason Dewitt.

  The Savannah police ignored their multiple requests. It actually became a department joke, Robert heard.

  Finally, after coming into some money, the family hired Dick Johnson, a private investigator who’d spent sixty years living in Savannah. His mother, once a Vegas showgirl, had traveled to the South in search of her wandering lover. Never finding him, she’d met and married Richard Johnson, one of the first black attorneys to practice in Savannah or at least the first one accepted into the white circle of law. The occasional reference to “zebra,” “Oreo baby,” and “halfbreed” went hand in hand when Dick’s name was mentioned.

  When the dead girl’s family came to his detective agency in search of answers, Dick was too well trained not to listen. The case appealed to him. The family hadn’t seemed the kind who were looking to place blame to clear their daughter’s sinful deed. They believed more had happened between Amy and her former boyfriend than the police reports revealed. Being a poor black family hadn’t been in their favor, either.

  Dick managed to pull in a few favors. According to the autopsy report, Amy had been hanged, but there were no rope marks on Amy’s neck, and a rope was never found. Further investigation showed Jason Dewitt, Amy’s white lover, had just learned Amy was pregnant. Dick was convinced Jason had killed Amy in a fit of rage, choking her to death, then trying to make it appear as though she’d committed suicide.

  When Jason’s grandfather, the Honorable William James Dewitt learned of the murder, he’d pulled and tightened every string in Savannah to cover up his grandson’s crime. Jason Dewitt’s punishment was being sent to Harvard.

  After Johnson’s investigation, fifteen years after the incident, Dr. Macklin had been cleared of all suspicion surrounding Amy’s death and had started practicing what he’d been trained for. Psychiatry.

  Robert pondered his current circumstances. If Blake Hunter wanted Ms. Edwards’s medical records, something was up. He wondered whose cheeks he’d have to spread to find out. He’d kissed many asses in his lifetime on this small island. Those days were about to end.

  Becky, with her greasy brown hair and sloped shoulders, remained in the doorway. Sometimes Robert felt sorry for the woman. Today wasn’t one of those days.

  “Then get them, Becky. My God, do you think this hospital pays you to lurk in my office? Do what the man asked, get the records and fax them to him. Blake’s a doctor; he should know Sanctuary normally doesn’t fax medical information.”

  “He faxed the release form,” Becky whispered.

  “Then do it, dammit!” His stupid secretary reminded him of Norma.

  He had nothing to worry about. The records were as they should be. He’d checked them himself when he’d learned of Dr. Macklin’s story. At least the man hadn’t tried to sabotage the hospital. Not that Robert really cared. It was a nuthouse after all, albeit an expensive one. An old rundown mansion that some poor relative of one of Sweetwater’s better families had left the state. The funding required for remodeling the old mansion listed on the National Historic Registry had been enormous. They’d turned the aging dump into a mental hospital. When the citizens of Sweetwater needed a director, they asked Robert. At first he’d said no. Then he learned it would be a salaried position, and he would only be required to spend a few hours a week on the forgotten grounds. He’d accepted the position and had held it ever since.

  Sanctuary had been just that to him many times over the years. When Norma complained or whined too much, he suddenly had work to do. God, how he wished she’d been able to have children. She might have been happy. When her father died four years after their marriage, he’d not only left Norma his house, but left her all of his holdings, which were enormous. A stipulation in the will—the firm of Goldberg, Willoughby, and Ruskin had complete control. Robert remained indebted to Norma. Her father’s estate left Norma wanting for nothing and him for everything. That was about to change.

  Casey placed the last of her recent purchases in the closet where she’d discovered the evil picture.

  She hoped Blake discovered something in her medical records. She couldn’t recall the tests that had been administered. For years she’d been on medication that left her in a fog. Some days when her thoughtless conscience reminded her, she’d flush the pills down the toilet. Then her days weren’t quite so foggy. She could think. At other times it almost seemed like she could remember. She’d told Dr. Macklin, and each time he’d pricked her with
a needle. Any hope of recovery was snuffed out by the obliterating sting.

  Then a few months earlier something happened. Dr. Macklin instructed Sandra to ease off her medication. Casey remembered waiting for the sounds of the orderly’s footsteps each evening. Would he stop with his needles and give her the expected return ticket to never-never land? She’d been almost joyous when the orderly passed her door.

  A few weeks later she’d learned of her upcoming release. Though she was sad at the thought of leaving her funny family, the clearheaded part of her told her there was something in her life she had to come to terms with. Just what that was, she didn’t know at the time. Now, it was a different story. With Blake’s help and her own determination, she was about to find out.

  Flora practically swooned when she learned of Casey’s accident. She’d asked if it really was an accident. Casey assured her that it had been, but the more she thought about it, the more suspicious she became. One would think after nearly plowing down a pedestrian, the person behind the wheel would return to the scene to make sure he or she hadn’t injured anyone. Laura, Brenda, and the young girl hadn’t offered their help. They’d stared at her like roadkill. The vehicle had disappeared in a cloud of dust. She’d had no hope of identifying its driver.

  Flora had sent her up to bed, promising to bring her a tray.

  “Casey?”

  Startled, Casey opened the door.

  Flora carried a tray filled with food. Casey helped her remove the plates from her bulky load.

  “If you keep this up, I’ll be as big as a house,” she said.

  “You need some meat on those bones, child. You always was a skinny little thing,” Flora said as she placed the tray next to the bed.

  “Flora.” She didn’t know how to phrase the question she wanted to ask, so she just blurted it out. “When I was a child, you took me to the doctor. Did Dr. Hunter, Blake’s father, ever tell you he suspected anything . . . untoward may have happened to me?”