Her patient was still lying with his eyes closed, the way she’d first seen him, and she wondered again if she’d imagined the conversation with him.
But even if he wasn’t going to talk to her, she could still talk to him.
“We’ll make sure your face isn’t itchy,” she said as she set the tray down on the hospital-style table with its swing arm.
After dipping the washcloth into the hot water, she used it to wet Jordan’s face, soothing it over his skin, softening his beard a little.
“I’ll bet that feels good,” she said. Then she squirted a blob of shaving cream into her hand and applied it carefully to his beard.
She’d shaved plenty of patients, but smearing foamy white cream on Jordan’s skin felt like an intimate act. After rinsing her hand, she picked up the razor and carefully began scraping away the whiskers.
His beard abraded her fingers. Then the newly smoothed skin made her own flesh tingle. She didn’t want to be turned on. She wanted to be entirely professional, but she couldn’t quite manage it.
She was surprised by her relaxation. This certainly wasn’t her normal behavior with a patient, yet the moment she’d seen Jordan Campbell, she’d felt a connection to him, as though the two of them had been destined to meet. Which was bunk, of course. This wasn’t destiny. This was a job she’d accepted from Frank Decorah.
When she finished, her heart was beating much too quickly. She drew a steadying breath, then carefully washed the remaining streaks of shaving cream from Jordan’s skin. Pouring aftershave onto her hands, she stroked it over his too-pale but beautifully masculine face.
Finally she took a step backward and gathered up the shaving equipment, returning it to its tray, and quickly carried it into the bathroom. Trying to calm her emotions, she carefully washed the razor, the bowl, and the washcloth, which she draped over the edge of the old-fashioned claw-footed tub.
While she worked, her mind kept churning on its own. When she’d first talked to Frank Decorah, she’d been reluctant to accept this assignment. But as she’d looked at the pictures and videos of Jordan and read about his background, she’d felt as though she knew him. Now the reality of the man compelled her, even though he’d spoken only a few words to her. If she hadn’t imagined the brief exchange.
Returning to the room, she said, “Say something else to me.”
Nothing.
Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost midnight. She walked to the door, opening it and listening intently for long moments. Maybe now she’d have some uninterrupted time with her patient.
She got the blood pressure cuff and the stethoscope and brought them back to the bed. First she checked his vital signs and found them stable. After putting down the equipment at the side of the mattress where they’d be within easy reach, she pulled up a chair and sat down.
“I think it’s time to get serious about communicating,” she said.
When she got no answer, she leaned over him, laying her head against his shoulder and reaching for his hand as she closed her eyes. It was a method she’d used to get in touch with other patients. It worked about half the time, and now she prayed that they would be successful.
She breathed deeply, reaching for Jordan’s mind. At first nothing happened, and she thought it wasn’t going to work. Then, abruptly, she was somewhere else, and not where she expected at all. Instead of Campbell’s Reach, she was in what looked like the hallway in an expensive hotel with thick carpeting on the floor and tasteful wallpaper.
When she turned around, she saw she was standing by the elevator. Turning back, she surveyed herself in the mirror across from her.
In the sickroom she’d been wearing the outfit she’d worn when she’d driven up from San Francisco. Now she was in a long flowing gown in a shade of green that matched her eyes. Not exactly a nightgown, but something too slinky to wear on the street. Sticking out her foot, she looked at her shoes, which were delicate ballet slippers.
Who had dressed her this way? It wasn’t her idea, was it?
“Jordan?”
He didn’t answer, but she had the feeling he was close by. Looking at the sign on the wall, she saw arrows pointing to the various blocks of rooms. Nineteen fifty to nineteen ninety nine were in one direction. The other direction pointed to two thousand through two thousand thirty.
She blinked. That wasn’t the way hotel rooms were usually numbered. Shouldn’t all the rooms on the same floor start with the same two numbers?
Again she called his name. “Jordan?”
Only silence greeted her, until she thought she heard Christmas carols drifting toward her from the side with the nineteens. Unsure of exactly where the music came from, she walked to the end of the hall and room nineteen sixty three. What would she find if she opened it? Grasping the knob, she turned it, and the door swung open—to reveal a nicely furnished room.
The holiday music grew louder. It was Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and it was coming from the bulky old-fashioned television set sitting on a chest along one wall.
She looked around the chamber. A huge Christmas tree decorated with garlands and antique-looking ornaments dominated one corner. Across from the tree, a middle-aged man and woman wearing dressing gowns were sitting on a sofa, sipping what looked like eggnog. Both had brown hair with a sprinkling of gray. His was cut short and hers was shoulder length. They both looked like they’d gotten up Christmas morning to open their presents. A box on the table held a man’s sweater. And the woman was unwrapping what looked like a jewelry box.
They paid her no attention. Should she try and speak to them? But what was she going to do if they answered?
She was about to withdraw, but she kept staring at the woman. Hadn’t she seen her before—somewhere?
Then it dawned on her. She’d seen pictures of Jordan with his grandmother, and this was her—only a younger version of the present Mrs. Campbell.
As though the woman finally realized someone was watching, she looked toward Hannah.
“You came,” she said, sounding relieved.
“Yes.”
“I’m so grateful you accepted the job. I know you can help Jordan.”
“Why do you think so?”
The woman laughed. “Because we’re having this impossible conversation.” She glanced at the man beside her. “You’d better go before Tom wonders who I’m talking to.”
“Okay.”
She backed out of the room and closed the door, feeling the strangeness of the encounter. It couldn’t have been real. Yet it had felt very real. And very important.
What else was she going to find in this place? Starting slowly up the hall again, she opened more doors. The rooms were similar, with paneling on the walls like what she’d seen at Campbell’s Reach. Maybe the same room with updated touches like a new sofa or chair or a new Oriental rug on the floor.
She decided this trip wasn’t productive—until she heard holiday music again. It was coming from behind the door marked in the mid-1980s. And almost blotting out the music was the sound of a crying baby.
Feeling a mixture of anticipation and dread, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. Now she could hear the music better. It was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and the room was completely different from the others, which had all been the same living room. This was a child’s nursery, furnished in a dreamy Victorian style. There was a polished wooden crib with a brightly painted animal mobile hanging overhead. A beautifully carved dresser held a small, artificial Christmas tree. Sitting in a rocking chair was a dark-haired woman, trying to quiet the baby Hannah had heard from out in the hall.
The mid-80s. Jordan must have been a baby then. Could she be seeing him with his mother? But how? It must be like when she’d seen his grandparents.
The woman in the rocker looked up, made eye contact, and smiled.
“You’re here to help Jordan,” she said.
“Yes. Where is he?”
She looked down at the baby. “He’s righ
t here.”
“I mean now—that he’s an adult.”
“He’s lost,” she said, despair in her voice. “You have to find him and bring him back before it’s too late.”
A door opened to her right, and a man stepped into the room.
“What are you doing?” he asked in a hard-edged voice.
“Jordan was crying. I’m trying to get him back to sleep.”
“Don’t coddle him.”
“Ralph, he’s just a baby.”
“And he’d better learn he has to rely on himself. Put him back in his crib and come back to bed.”
The woman looked from the baby to Hannah. “You’d better go,” she mouthed.
Hannah backed away and closed the door. In the hallway, she dragged in a breath and let it out, frustration and fear clashing inside her. Had she really seen a vision from Jordan’s past? Talked to his mother, Susan? And seen how his father wanted to raise the boy?
She knew Ralph Campbell was a hard-driving executive who had died of a heart attack when Jordan was in his twenties. Then Susan Campbell had died of breast cancer a few years later. The father and Jordan had never gotten along, but he’d been devastated by his mother’s death. Until then, he’d defied his father by doing badly in school, driving recklessly, and doing the minimum he needed to get by at work. When his mother had died, he’d decided to make a success of his life.
And now that life might be over—if she didn’t help him.
A sense of urgency sent Hannah running down the hall. She considered stopping at other doors, but she let her intuition guide her as she sped past the elevator and then down into the section that must mark the twenty-first century.
She was breathing hard when she finally stopped at the door for the current year. Was he there? Or was she making all this up?
She listened for a long moment. Again she heard Christmas music, carols, not one of the popular songs that had invaded the holiday.
As O Holy Night began to play, she turned the knob, pushed the door open and stepped into the room. For a moment she fought a surge of disappointment. She was in Jordan’s bedroom—back where she’d started. Or was it?
The large four-poster was there—with a different spread. But the screen and the hospital bed were missing. And in the shadows by the fireplace, she saw a man standing very still, watching her with unnerving intensity. She dragged in a sharp breath. It was him.
This was the moment that she had been waiting for, and a surge of relief swept through her. She’d come here to make contact with him, and finally it was happening.
“Jordan!’”
He tipped his head to the side, staring at her with an expression she couldn’t read. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been wearing a hospital gown. But like hers, his outfit had changed significantly. Now he was dressed in dark slacks, an open sports coat, and a white dress shirt.
His brow wrinkled as he looked at her. “Do I know you?”
“Did he?”
“I’m Hannah Andrews,” she said, waiting to see if the name registered.
Instead of showing any sign of recognition, he asked, “And what are you doing here?”
“I’m your nurse.”
He snorted and waved his arm impatiently. “Oh come on. I don’t need a nurse.”
As she took a step into the room and closed the door behind her, he came out of the shadows. He looked fit and tanned, his hair mussed, the way he had looked in the pictures she’d seen—not like the man lying unconscious on the bed. But when she saw what was in his hand, she gasped.
Chapter Six
He was holding a gun, and he raised it, pointing it toward her.
“Don’t,” she whispered. Could he hurt her here? She didn’t want to take the chance of finding out.
“Who are you really?” he demanded.
“Your nurse,” she said again.
“Something strange is going on. Something I don’t understand, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it,” he said in a hard voice.
Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak, but she managed to say, “Yes, something’s going on.” She slowly raised her hand. “Please, put the gun down.”
“Not until you answer some relevant questions. And I’ll decide whether they sent you to feed me some story.”
“Who?”
“Maybe Richard. Or Paula or June. Even Stephanie. I don’t know.” She heard the frustration in his voice. But at least he’d named some people who were in the house. Had they all been here before his “accident”? She wished she knew.
“So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?” he said.
She swallowed hard, thinking that he wasn’t going to like the truth. And what were the chances he’d believe her? “What’s the last thing you remember?”
His gaze turned inward. “The boat. I was out in the boat. No, I’d gone back to my office to check on. . .” He stopped short, looking uncertain.
“On what?”
His expression hardened. “On who was getting into my files.”
“And then?” she prompted.
He ran his free hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
“Someone hit you over the head and knocked you unconscious,” she supplied. “Then they dragged you down to the boat landing and left you for dead. Only Stephanie found you before the tide came in and drowned you.”
“That’s a load of crap,” he shot back.
“Is it? Where are you?”
He looked around. “You can see as well as I can. In my damn bedroom.”
“Are you sure?”
For answer he pounded his fist against the table beside where he stood, then raised his hand, looking at the red mark.
“You’re not sure, are you?” she asked gently.
His expression changed. When he put the gun down on the table, she breathed out a small sigh of relief. At least he wasn’t still threatening her.
“Tell me the truth,” he said.
“Everything I’ve said is the truth.” She dragged in a breath and let it out. “You never woke up after the accident. You’re in a coma. And you are in your bedroom, only they moved a hospital bed in here.”
“No,” he protested, but she caught the edge of doubt in his voice—even fear. The vulnerable expression on his face made her stomach knot.
Slowly she walked toward him and put a hand on his arm, feeling the strong muscles under his shirt sleeve. In this dream he was in top physical condition.
“Let’s be logical. If I’m in a coma, what are you doing here? I mean how can I be talking to you?” he asked, and she knew he was clutching for a lifeline. “Unless I made you up. Is that it? I wanted a woman in my bed, and I imagined you here?”
“No.”
“Then what? And why should I believe anything you say?”
Feeling trapped by his mistrust, she fumbled for the right words. “Frank Decorah sent me here because I . . . have the ability to contact you. I guess to get into this dream with you.”
“Who is Frank Decorah?”
“A private detective who was hired by your grandmother.”
“Grandma? What’s she got to do with this?”
“She’s worried about you. You were e-mailing her.”
His gaze turned inward.
“You remember that?”
“Yes. I just needed someone to talk to about it. I didn’t expect her to get involved.”
“Frank Decorah knew about my special talent—to contact people who are unconscious. He asked me to get a job at Campbell’s Reach, on the nursing staff.”
At least Jordan looked like he was listening.
“I need to help you wake up.”
“How?”
Her hand tightened on his arm. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s just great,” he said in a grating voice and turned away. Walking to the window, he swept the curtains aside and stood looking out at the ocean. She came up beside him and saw swells in the gray water and waves cras
hing at the base of the cliff.
With a sigh, she pressed her face to his shoulder. “Let me help you,” she said again.
“How?”
“I want to know what you’re aware of. Like, a little while ago, do you remember Richard was in your room?”
“No.”
“You said something to me after that.”
“How could I, if I’m in a coma?”
“Well, you didn’t say it aloud. You said it in my mind.”
“Oh sure.”
“You said he was a bastard.”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah, he is.” He turned to face her, standing so close that their bodies touched, and the thought she’d had earlier came back to her. Could she wake him by forming an intimate bond with him? Or was that just an excuse to do what she’d been thinking about for days?
Raising her face, she stared into his dark eyes. For a charged moment, neither of them moved. Before she could change her mind, she cupped the back of his head, lowered his face, and touched her lips to his.
At first he didn’t respond. Then he accepted the contact and moved his mouth against hers before settling and pressing. She returned the pressure. When his tongue stroked the seam of her lips, she parted them.
As she did, she felt a surge of heat as his breath mingled with hers. His tongue dipped into her mouth, playing with the inside of her lips, then the line of her teeth. She had wondered what kind of lover he would be. Now she knew he was good at kissing.
And what other talents did he have?
Her breath caught as his hands glided down her back and cupped her bottom.
When he spoke, it was against her lips. “Don’t lie to me. You came to my bedroom in that provocative outfit to make love with me.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“What I said. To wake you.”
He laughed, but the sound wasn’t nearly as harsh as when they’d been discussing Richard. “You’re waking me all right.” To emphasize the point, he pressed his hips against her, and she felt the erection straining at the front of his slacks.
“We’re both wearing too much,” he muttered.
CHRISTMAS CAPTIVE (Decorah Security Series): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novella Page 3
