by Francis Ray
“Steinberg is willing to buy you out of your contract and work with TriStar,” he said with just a hint of annoyance. “Just think, Madison, a nationally syndicated show for you, a head anchor position for me on the most respected station in the country. There—ll be no stopping us then. We—ll be the most influential couple on television.”
It had been a long time since Wes had spoken of them as a team or with such fervency. He was the old Wes once again, ready to challenge the world to get what he wanted. Only this time, she wasn—t ready to follow him.
“The station is willing to double your present salary, and with the perks Louis is going to make sure you get, it could easily be worth another couple hundred thousand,” he said. “You know as well as I do how fickle the public is. We have to do this now and I know you want this as much as I do.”
She had. National syndication had been her dream and she had worked hard to achieve success, but now that it was within reach, she wasn—t so sure she was willing to pay the price by living a lie in a loveless marriage. “They want the couple the media sees.”
“We can be that way again.” Again the whisper of seduction came into his voice. He reached for her hand, but she was already sliding them into her pockets.
“I—m not sure how much longer I can go on this way,” she said softly.
Wes—s lips firmed. “The public and the TV stations want the perfect couple. That—s us. You balk and there—s a good chance our popularity, and thus our income, will suffer.” His arm waved expansively around the kitchen that had imported Italian tile and hand-blown chandeliers. “Are you willing to throw this all away?”
Instead of answering, Madison glanced around the room. They lived in a custom-built home, purchased mostly with her money. Four thousand square feet of living space in an exclusive gated community with its own golf course and lake, a four-car garage, a professionally landscaped and maintained yard, a miniature practice golf area for Wes, and separate offices for each. But what good was all that luxury when they were living a lie?
“Madison.” Wes—s voice softened to a croon when she remained silent. “We have a lot more than most of our friends and associates.”
And a lot less, she started to say, but didn—t. She—d drifted away from her close women friends because friends shared and she hadn—t wanted anyone to know about her disintegrating marriage. While her career had skyrocketed, her personal life had taken a nosedive. Her many friends had stopped calling when she kept making excuses not to go out with them. They probably thought she was on an ego trip.
Looking back, she honestly didn—t know if their successful careers had been worth the sacrifices they—d made. Once she had known who held her tomorrows. That seemed like such a long time ago. Now, the only thing she was sure of was that she couldn—t continue with all the false pretenses. Wes had his dreams and she had hers. They just weren—t the same anymore. “Wes—”
“Please, don—t say no,” he interrupted quickly, as if anticipating her answer. “Just think about it. The station is contacting a realtor about finding us a place. I—d appreciate you flying up with me. The head of the station has invited us to dinner at his house to meet some of the key people.”
“And it wouldn—t look right if you went without the other half of the perfect couple, would it?” she asked, aware of the biting sarcasm in her voice.
Wes said nothing, merely stared at her. He could rebuke more skillfully with a look than others could with a thousand hurtful words.
“Sorry.”
He reached out and ran his hand down her arm. “You—ve been working hard to finish up the season. I understand. Why don—t we forget it for the time being? I—ll take you to Oliver—s for dinner.”
The Italian restaurant was her favorite. “We haven—t been there together in over a year.”
“I—m sorry for that, but that just points out the importance of us taking the offer. We—ll have more time together,” he cajoled, and stood. “All I—m asking is that you keep an open mind.”
Madison stared up into his handsome face and wished she felt something, anything. Perhaps it was time. Talk was something they hadn—t done in what seemed like forever. She couldn—t go on with the way things were. The steady pounding in her head told her as much. “I—ll be home by five.”
Relief swept across his face. “I—ll make reservations for six-thirty.” He brushed warm lips fleetingly across her cheek. “I promise you won—t be sorry.”
Madison watched him walk away. He—d promised her the same thing once before and hadn—t been able to keep that promise. Madison was painfully aware that he wouldn—t be able to keep his promise this time, either.
The last day before hiatus was always hectic and today proved no different. There were the repeat shows to be finalized, the topics and possible locations for future shows to be decided on, and, of course, there were always the ratings to be considered, and the competition.
Madison and Gordon were seated at a small table in her office when the door opened. Frowning, Madison glanced up. She had asked Traci, her secretary/assistant, that she not be disturbed.
Puzzlement turned to concern as Traci, flanked by two uniformed policemen, entered the room. Her young face was parchment-white.
Madison came to her feet, ready to defend the young woman who had been her assistant for the past six months. She—d worked with Traci long enough to know she wasn—t the type of person to break the law. “You don—t have to be afraid, Traci—I—m sure there has been some misunderstanding, and I—ll help fix it.”
“Ms. Reed, I—m so sorry,” Traci murmured, as tears slid silently down her pale cheeks.
Madison shifted her attention from her trembling assistant to the solemn faces of the policemen. Dread slithered down her spine. Without being aware of it, she reached out for the support of the table.
She had interviewed too many people on her show not to have an idea of what the policemen—s serious faces meant. She quickly ruled out their visit having anything to do with her parents or her older sister who lived in Newark. If anything had happened to them, she would have received a phone call.
“It—s Wes, isn—t it?” she asked, barely able to push the words past the growing constriction in her throat.
The older of the two policemen stepped forward, his brimmed hat in his hands. “I—m sorry, Ms. Reed, to have to tell you this, but your husband has been injured in an accident on the freeway while trying to help a motorist change a tire.”
Madison felt arms go around her. In some part of her swirling mind she knew they belonged to Gordon, but she was unable to take her eyes from the policeman. “H-how bad is it?”
“He was airlifted to Parkland. I think it—s best you get over there as soon as possible.”
THREE
ZACHARY HOLMAN CAREENED INTO Parkland Hospital—s emergency-room parking lot and braked sharply behind two older-model cars. He didn—t see an empty space and had no intention of wasting precious time trying to find one. Jumping out of his truck, he sprinted toward the automatic doors.
“Hey! You can—t park there!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Zachary saw a security guard rushing toward him. Zachary kept going.
“You—ll be towed!” the rotund guard warned.
Zachary flipped his keys. Startled, eyes wide, the man reflexively caught them in midair. “I—m sorry,” Zachary said, and ran faster.
He didn—t stop until he stood in front of a glass enclosure labeled ADMISSIONS in block lettering. A woman in an animal-print Smock looked up from entering data into a computer. Her eyes rounded on seeing the blood staining his shirt and pants.
“It—s not mine,” Zachary said, his fists clenching as he fought the tightness in his throat. The Care Flight attendant had thought the same thing. “Wes Reed. Where is he? He was airlifted from an accident on Stemmons.”
“Are you a relative?” she asked, peering quizzically up at him.
“I heard you admit you�
�re not hurt. You—ll have to move that truck,” the security guard interrupted from beside Zachary, his wide-legged stance belligerent.
Zachary ignored the man. He couldn—t get the sounds of Wes—s painful moans out of his mind. “Please, where is he?”
“Sir—”
“Look, Ms. Johnson,” Zachary said, cutting her off after reading her name tag. Intimidation worked best if you had a name. “I know you have a job to do, but in case you aren—t aware of it, Wes Reed is a very famous newscaster and he—s highly respected and well liked in this city and across the nation. If anything happens to him while you stand there wasting time there—ll be hell to pay. I personally guarantee it. So, where is he?” The last words were snapped out. Zachary was used to giving orders and people jumping.
Uncertainty moved in the woman—s eyes. She glanced over her shoulder to the two other women in the small cubicle with her. The oldest one, a black woman with shoulder-length braids, stepped forward. “Isn—t he Madison Reed—s husband?”
Zachary thought Wes would have hated that reference, but right now it might help. “Yes.”
“Cubicle six. Down the hall to the right. It—s marked on the side of the door.”
“Thanks,” Zachary said, taking off in that direction, this time going slower because the hallway was crowded with people, hospital beds, and equipment. His hand was shaking when he pushed open the door to cubicle six. He couldn—t see Wes because of the number of people surrounding his bed. Then one moved to grab something from a metal tray. Zachary saw Wes and came to an abrupt stop.
His expensive suit had been slashed from his body, a body that was badly bruised and bloody. A large gash ran at least eight inches on his left thigh. But what made Zachary—s stomach roll was the blood coating Wes—s chest. Blood that also stained the garments of the people working frantically on him. Zachary—s unsteady hand brushed across his own bloody shirt. How much blood could Wes lose and survive?
It had happened so quickly. Zachary had been only minutes behind Wes on the freeway. Zachary had been kidding Wes on the cell phone about getting his hands dirty changing a tire. He—d thought Wes—s curse had something to do with the tire until Zachary heard the screams and the sickening sound of metal again metal that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“Blood pressure dropping.”
“Dammit. More suction.”
“What—s the heart rhythm?”
“Sinus tach at one-fifty.”
“Blood pressure ninety over fifty and dropping fast.”
“He—s bleeding into the pericardial sac.”
Transfixed, Zachary watched as a long needle plunged into Wes—s chest. His stomach rolled again. Wes hated needles. They both did.
“BP ninety-eight over fifty-two. One-oh-two over sixty.”
“Let—s move it, people, and get him into surgery.”
They moved as one unit. Positioned at the foot, head, and side of the gurney, they started toward him. Automatically Zachary moved back. But as they passed he was unable to keep from calling Wes—s name.
“Wes.” There was no response. Zachary hadn—t expected any. There was a tube down his throat and taped to the sides of his mouth. Wes always had energy to spare. Now he was still, and pale. “Wes.”
Long, sooty eyelashes flickered in a face so bruised it was almost unrecognizable. Swallowing, Zachary reached for Wes—s hand. “You—re going to be all right. Hang in there.”
“Move!” snapped the middle-aged man who had worked frantically on Wes as he—d shouted orders to the people around him. “We have to get him to surgery,” Dr. London bellowed.
Zachary quickly released Wes—s hand but, as they moved down the hall, he moved with them.
“I—m sorry, sir, you—ll have to wait here or in the surgery waiting room,” one of the nurses said.
“I—m not leaving him, and you—re wasting your breath trying to get me to.” Zachary—s eyes were on Wes; he didn—t see the gray-haired doctor shake his head when the nurse lifted her hand toward the watchful security guard.
“From the looks of you, you must be the one trying to help him at the scene of the accident. Are you Zach, the one the attendant said he asked for on the way in?” Dr. London asked, his shrewd blue eyes studying Zachary closely as they moved down the hallway.
Zachary nodded, his worried gaze still fixed on Wes—s pale face.
“If you—re going to tag along, you might as well try to be useful. Do you know anything about his medical history or family history? Medication he might be on?” Dr. London asked.
Zachary finally lifted his head. “I know everything there is to know about him,”
“Good, then start talking,” the doctor ordered as they rolled Wes—s unconscious body onto the elevator.
Madison and Gordon were met at the entrance of Parkland Hospital by a middle-aged ash-blonde with a trim figure and gentle blue eyes who identified herself as Ann Crane, director of public relations. All Madison wanted to know was Wes—s condition.
“He—s still in surgery. His doctor will speak with you as soon as he—s finished,” Ann said, leading them gently but firmly toward the bank of elevators. “If you—ll follow me, we have a room ready where you can wait undisturbed.”
“Thank you,” Gordon said, his arm around Madison—s shoulders. He—d never seen her so shaken.
The ride to the fifth floor was completed in silence. Stepping off, the woman led them down the wide hallway. “This is one of our conference rooms,” Opening the door, she stepped back for them to enter. “There—s coffee, tea, and soft drinks, if you—d care for them.”
Madison lifted anguish-filled eyes to Ann. “When they brought him in, was he conscious? In pain?—
“I—m afraid I don—t know the answers to your questions, Ms. Reed,” Ann Crane offered apologetically. “By the time it was discovered who your husband was, he was already in surgery. I can tell you that Parkland Hospital specializes in trauma, and the best trauma surgeon was on duty when your husband was brought in.”
All Madison could think of was that sometimes even the best wasn—t good enough. She knew that better than anyone.
“Is there anyone else you—d like me to notify?” Ann asked. She and Gordon traded worried glances when Madison didn—t respond.
“Madison, Ms. Crane asked if there was anyone else you—d like her to call,” Gordon said gently. “His parents?”
Madison closed her eyes. She hadn—t thought of them. They—d be devastated. Wes was more than an only child. They worshiped him, especially his mother. How was Madison going to tell them?
“Madison,” Gordon said, “I can call them if you—d like.”
Only for a moment did she consider letting him make what was sure to be a painful call. “No, I—ll do it.”
‘There—s a phone on the credenza. Just dial nine for an outside line.” The spokeswoman pointed to a beautiful carved walnut piece against the back wall. “My card is next to it in case you need to call me. We—ll probably be getting quite a few inquiries about Mr. Reed. His condition will be given out as unknown until we have further information. The surgical floor and waiting room are on the floor below us. No one but top-level staff knows where you are. You—re welcome to give out this location and the phone—s extension to family members and friends.”
“Th-thank you.” Madison slowly walked over to the phone and stared down at it. Her trembling hand wavered over the beige phone.
“Ms. Reed, is there a problem?” the woman asked.
“I—I can—t remember the number.” Her voice quivered.
“713-555-8888.”
Madison whirled toward the deep voice that for a brief moment sounded like Wes—s. Seeing the man dashed all hopes that this had been some type of horrible mistake, that Wes was well and not fighting for his life in the operating room.
There was nothing of Wes in the man. Wes was heart-stoppingly handsome and elegant. This man was taller, broader, with a rugged face and wide ca
llused hands with scraped knuckles. This man wore a denim shirt and well-worn jeans, and scuffed workboots. Wes liked to talk. This man seldom spoke unless asked a direct question. She knew all this because he was the contractor Wes had hired to build their house, and while she hadn—t gotten to know him well, she knew he was a friend of Wes—s.
“Zachary.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, but said nothing. His dark face was as grim as she knew hers to be.
“Is—is a member of your family here, too?”
His gaze went briefly beyond her to the other people in the room, before returning to her. He crossed the room and stopped directly in front of her. Midnight-black eyes filled with grief stared down at her. “I—m here because of Wes. We had an appointment. We … we were talking on the cell phone when …” He swallowed. “I got there before Care Flight touched down on the freeway, and stayed with him. I came on after they lifted off with him.”
Madison—s eyed widened. She grabbed both of his arms, her nails digging through his shirt into his skin. “Was he conscious? How did he look? What did he say?”
Zachary swallowed again before answering the rapid-fire questions. “He … he was conscious for a little while.”
“Go on,” she urged. “I won—t fall apart.”
“He was injured pretty bad, but … Dr. London seems to know what he—s doing. I understand he—s the best.”
Looking into Zachary—s eyes, which kept sliding away from hers, Madison felt a chill. Her fingers uncurled and she turned away. “Wes will come through this. He was offered an anchor position for a national news show last night. He has waited years for this. He has to be all right.”
“Wes never let anything keep him down,” Zachary said quietly.
Feeling tears prick her eyes again, Madison blinked them away. She felt the gentle pressure of a tissue being shoved into her hand. Dabbing the moisture away, she saw the compassionate face of the spokeswoman. “Thank you.”
“Remember, my card is by the phone if you need anything. The hospital won—t give out any information other than to confirm that Mr. Reed has been admitted unless you direct us to do otherwise.”
