Under the Sheets (Capitol Chronicles Book 1)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Marianne gave her a sober look and nodded. "Use the blanket," she said, reluctant to leave her alone. "Things will be better in the morning."

  Marianne smiled and nodded. She headed for the door. Turning she watched Brooke sink into the nearest chair and fold her arms across herself in a protective gesture.

  Robyn sank into her chair. She swallowed. Dr. Elliott would come back when Grant was gone. Tears rolled from her eyes. Five-year-old tears spilled onto her cheeks, reminding her of a time when she’d left everything she loved behind—including her hus­band. The only thing she’d taken was Kari.

  And now she might even lose her.

  Chapter 2

  "You’ve saved her life," Dr. Elliott said, as he en­tered the emergency room’s curtained cubicle. "The sample matches so perfectly you could be of the same bloodline." A nurse carrying the life-giving liquid passed him, carefully holding the sterile plastic bag that contained the Richardses’ ancestry.

  Grant smiled at the white-coated doctor. He donated blood often but this was the first time the recipient of his rare type was waiting for the extraction as it left his body. "What’s her name?" he asked. All he’d been told was that it was for a child.

  "Kari Johnson, a beautiful, black-eyed four-year-old with long dark braids and a smile to twist a man’s heart."

  "Sounds like she’s got yours, Doc." Grant laughed a clear, hearty sound.

  "Oh, she has. Her mother is in the ICU waiting room, fourth floor. I’m sure she’d like to see you again."

  "Again?" Grant slipped off the examination table, rolling his sleeve down and rebuttoning his cuff.

  “She gave us your name and told us where to find you. Naturally I assumed you knew each other.”

  "Mrs. Johnson?" Grant slipped his arms in the blue uniform jacket the doctor held out to him. His brows knitted in confusion. Johnson was a common name, but it brought no images to mind.

  "Mrs. Brooke Johnson," Dr. Elliott prodded.

  The name meant nothing to him. "I’m not sure I remember a Brooke Johnson. Maybe it’s her husband I know."

  "She’s a widow. Her husband died as a result of some military accident before they moved here. I never met him."

  "It doesn’t matter. I’ll say hello before I leave." Grant smiled. Generally, he was good at remembering names and faces. And if he did know Brooke Johnson, it would be rude to leave without seeing her.

  "Good-bye, Mr. Richards and thank you for com­ing."

  Grant shook hands with the thin, long-legged doctor whose height matched his own six-foot, two-inch frame. Frank Elliott would have had all the earmarks of a country doctor if it hadn’t been for the rush of brown curls that fell over the collar of his long white coat and the diamond stud that pierced his left earlobe. Dr. Elliott thanked him again, as the doors of the ele­vator slid open. Grant clasped his hand and with a smile, stepped inside.

  The hall was clear when the doors opened onto the fourth floor. Grant whistled softly into the quiet as he walked toward the waiting room adjacent to the doors leading to the intensive care unit. Pushing the door open, his heart suddenly stopped, then hammered so hard against his ribs that he thought the woman facing the windows would certainly hear it. He gripped the glass-paneled door. Robyn was dead. His mind told him that, but everything about this woman screamed her name. The way she stood with her arms wrapped across her body as if she were warding off something. The bow of her head and the soft curve of her hips and legs could be duplicates of the woman he’d loved with all his being. The hair falling down her back was the same color as Robyn’s had been. The darkness of the outside prevented any highlights from showing, but instinctively he knew they’d be golden, like the copper pennies he collected in the glass bowl on the desk in his den.

  His heartbeat shot to his throat and lodged there. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead despite the comfortable tempera­ture of the room. He didn’t know how long he stood there, rooted in position. It was like seeing Robyn again, being in the same room with her.

  Then she turned. When she did, his heart stopped again. This time in relief. Color drained from his face, and he dropped his head for a second to gain control of his rioting emotions.

  When he looked up, sad swollen eyes looked into his as though they could see into his mind. But not even the shape of her face had any resemblance to his dead wife’s. In the five years since Robyn died, he hadn’t reacted to a woman as violently as he did to the one standing ten feet away. When she spoke, her voice was throaty and choked. Robyn’s had done that when her emotions were close to the surface. He braked his thoughts, telling himself he was reading more into this than was really there. Hundreds of women have that hair color. Don’t make more of this than necessary.

  Robyn died. This was not her.

  ***

  Robyn had her back to the door, but she felt the soft rush of air as it opened and closed silently. The goose bumps rising on her arms and legs and the cold fear running the column from her neck down her spine told her that Grant had entered. Even though she knew he was coming, she was not prepared to see him again.

  "Mrs. Johnson, I’m Grant Richards." The deep voice that had whispered words of love in her ear had not changed. She didn’t move. Her body seemed frozen except for the hot blood that sang in her ears. Five years ago, this man had been her husband. His vital good looks were as she remembered them be­fore his plane had been hijacked to Beirut, and he’d been held prisoner.

  His tall, athletically toned body looked more like he spent his days on some California beach than cut­ting through the air thirty-thousand feet up. His black hair was slightly longer than airline regulations al­lowed, but his eyes were still sepia brown with dark flecks of gold. The cleft in his strong chin added sex appeal to a winning smile.

  There wasn’t much different about his appearance. His eyes looked tired, but that could be due to having extended his day by immediately boarding a flight to Buffalo after his plane had landed at Wash­ington’s Reagan National Airport. Dr. Elliott had given her this information when he’d located Grant. Several strands of gray had sneaked into his hair near his temples, and a small vertical scar bisected his right eyebrow. The scar added a slightly sinister look to his face. It hadn’t been there when she’d last seen him. It had to be a reminder of the time he spent as a Lebanese captive, she thought. Some sixth sense made her ball her hand into a fist behind her to keep from smoothing the separated brows.

  "You didn’t have to come. They could have flown the blood up. I didn’t expect its owner to come with it," Robyn continued. She looked directly at him but made no attempt to move.

  Eyes without a glimmer of recognition appraised her from her high cheekbones and shoulder length, dark brown hair to the generous curve of her hips, down her dancer’s legs to end at her sandaled feet. She hadn’t left the hospital since they brought Kari in. Now, she was aware of the rumpled shorts and blood-stained T-shirt that she still wore from their trip to the beach.

  "Doctor Elliott was insistent on the urgency. There was a plane standing by—and here I am. Your daugh­ter should be receiving the blood right now." Relief pierced through her like physical pain. Grant saw her step back and brace herself against the window frame. She turned away from him as she began to tremble. Her body shook violently, and no amount of self-determination could stop it from com­pleting the course it had begun.

  He watched her fight the fear that the accident must have caused in her. And now that Kari would be all right, delayed reaction to the pent-up stress was setting in. He had seen it before, in Beirut, when they were finally released. Men, who had been paragons of strength for many months, even years, collapsed in tears when they reached safety.

  Grant touched her lightly on the shoulder, then turned her toward him. She went easily into his arms, and he closed them around her as if they had a right to be there. He held her a moment too long. She felt good in his arms and he was reluctant to let her go. But he lowered her to one of the sofas.


  "It’s all right, she’ll be fine now," he said, comfort­ing her, unable to keep himself from stroking her hair.

  "Thank you," Robyn said moments later as she pushed herself up. Grant took her hands and held them. The gesture, she was sure, was to comfort her, but what she felt was a magnetism which wanted to push her farther into his arms. "Mr. Richards. . ." she began.

  "Grant," he corrected. "Everyone calls me Grant, and we are practically related," he added, a smile crin­kling his eyes. "We have a child between us."

  ***

  Grant had intended the comment to make her laugh. But when the color drained from her already pale face and fear replaced the sadness in her eyes, he was sorry he said it. His hands squeezed the suddenly cold ones in his grasp. "I’m sorry. It was a poor joke."

  Robyn tried to smile, but his words caught her by surprise. "I understand," she managed. "I was. . .I just wanted to say that I appreciate what you’ve done for Kari. It must have been an inconve­nience for you. . .and your family to come all this way." She stood up and walked aimlessly about with no particular destination in mind. The brief moment in his arms was too close to heaven for her to with­stand his nearness. And she couldn’t keep holding his hands.

  "I don’t have a family. I had a wife." He hesitated for the space of a moment. Robyn noticed it. "She died five years ago."

  No she didn‘t, Robyn wanted to scream. "I’m very sorry." Robyn was relieved but somehow sad, too. If he had remarried his leaving wouldn’t be any easier to take than knowing he was still single. It might even be harder knowing there was another woman who had taken her place.

  He stood up and came to stand behind her. "How long have you been here?" he asked, moving the sub­ject away from the past. Robyn didn’t know why she’d brought up the subject of his family. She knew he thought she was dead. It was how Jacob Winston and his force had manipulated the situation.

  "The ambulance brought us in yesterday. No-no, it was the day before."

  Robyn had done that, Grant thought, made that little quick repeat of the word no, Grant noted with shock. "And I’ll bet you haven’t had anything to eat except these cups of cof­fee."

  For the first time, Robyn noticed that the table was littered with partially emptied cups of vending ma­chine coffee. Eight tan-and-white striped cups were scattered about the low table, several more looked at her from the wastebasket.

  "I’m hungry. Let me buy you a good dinner," he offered.

  "No, I need to stay here. Kari. . ."

  "Is in good hands." Dr. Elliott spoke from the door. "You need to get out of here and get some sleep." He came toward them. "Kari is sleeping comfortably. She won’t wake up before morning."

  How could she explain? Robyn couldn’t have dinner with Grant. She didn’t want to feel the way he made her feel. Spending time in his company wasn’t part of the bargain she’d made with Jacob. In fact, it was in direct violation of the Witness Protection Program of which she and Kari were participants.

  Dr. Elliott bent to pick up her sweater from the chair while Grant took her elbow and nudged her toward the waiting room door. She was too tired to struggle, allowing herself to be jockeyed by the two men. One part of her wanted to give in, but somewhere inside a part of her shouted to stop before things got out of hand.

  "Could I see Kari before I go?" She turned back to the pediatrician.

  "Of course, but only for a moment." Dr. Elliott took her hand and spoke seriously. "Kari is taking the blood now. We won’t know much until tomorrow. Get some sleep. If there is any change, I’ll have the hospital call you."

  Robyn nodded, her eyes flooding with tears that she blinked away. The three of them walked down the hall to the room that housed her small daughter and several shelves of monitoring equipment. Grant followed Robyn as she entered the room and stood at the re­straining rail. Kari slept quietly. The precious liquid dripped slowly through its plastic tube, linking Kari’s fragile existence to the preserver hanging above her.

  Tears sprang to Robyn’s eyes as guilt filled her heart. Grant, misunderstanding her action, turned her into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder. She savored the moment. He was so warm and solid she wanted to hang onto him. His child lay so close, and her mouth was bound against telling him of her ex­istence.

  Grant didn’t know what was happening to him. He had her in his arms now for the second time in the half hour since they’d met. She was so soft. Her hair smelled like sunshine and fresh air. He wanted to crush her to himself, let her know her child would be all right. Brooke Johnson was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in years, but he couldn’t tell her. Her mind was totally on the child in the bed behind them. She was only clinging to him because she was tired and scared.

  Robyn gently pushed herself away from him and moved back to the bed. She smoothed back Kari’s dark hair. Her bangs had lost all their curl, and her barrettes looked unnatural against the pillows. She was pale. Her skin, usually a golden brown, was a pale gray. Her arms were bandaged, and there was a bright red gash on her cheek. Lowering the railing between them, she leaned over and kissed her daughter. Carefully, she examined the arm where the exploding glass had sev­ered her artery. When Robyn straightened and repositioned the barrier, she stared at Kari until Grant put his hand on her shoulder and slowly turned her toward the door.

  "Are there any good restaurants close by?" he asked at the High Street entrance as they waited for a taxi.

  "Of course," she said, thinking of Yesterdays for the first time in nearly two days. Although Marianne had been at the hospital, Robyn had not thought of the restaurant. "I’m not very hungry. I don’t really want anything to eat."

  "Then, I’ll see you home."

  Robyn nodded. Her head lolled on her neck. Grant put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the steps. The taxi arrived, and he helped her into the backseat.

  Robyn leaned against the upholstery, her eyes closed. Grant hated to disturb her. "We need your ad­dress, Brooke," he whispered.

  She was instantly alert. As much as she wanted to fold herself against him, she sat erect.

  ***

  "This is lovely," Grant said twenty minutes later as they entered the house she and Kari had occupied since coming to Buffalo. The living room was on the left and Grant went into it. A large L-shaped sofa in a soft dusty rose faced the fireplace in her oversized living room. In front of it was a square mahogany cocktail table holding an arrangement of gray and mauve silk flowers. Two wing chairs completed the grouping.

  "Thank you," she smiled, somehow glad he liked it. "We find it comfortable."

  "It looks more than comfortable." He went to the mantel and lifted a gold-framed photo of a smiling child. Dr. Elliott had been right. He could see how she could twist a man’s heart. Except for her eye color, Kari looked nothing like her mother, he thought. Grant looked at the wedding photo on the opposite side of the mantel. He didn’t see much resemblance there either.

  "My husband," she explained. "He died before Kari was born."

  "I’m sorry," Grant said, feeling at a loss of what to say.

  Her hands squeezed into fists behind her as Grant compared the doctored wedding photo of her and a man she’d never met to the one of Kari he held in his hand.

  "She’s got your eyes," he said.

  Robyn nodded. And everything else she got from you, she silently amended.

  He turned back to Brooke. Grant liked the decor. The room told a lot about its owner. It was cool and serene with a quiet charm. Although the furnishings were modern, the accents revealed a definite tradi­tional flavor. As he looked around further, he saw ev­erything was neatly stored in its proper place, yet there was an air about it which said you can live here. He could imagine toys scattered about the carpeted floor or see colored packages radiating from a tall Christ­mas tree.

  It’s home. The thought knocked him off guard. He hadn’t thought about a home since Robyn died. He’d sold their old house. He couldn’t live there without
her. Her mother’s piano was the only thing he hadn’t put in storage, and he couldn’t bring himself to sell it. Robyn had loved it too much.

  And here was another woman whose placement of inanimate objects had caused him to remember what it was like to live in a home. After the many foster homes he’d lived in before he was twelve, he couldn’t remember anything as permanent. He was as sure as he could be that this was his idea of what home should look like. He replaced the photo and turned back to Brooke.

  “Most of our living isn’t done in here. Robyn turned and walked to the other side of the house. A great room opened up showing a big-screen television, comfortable furniture and an array of toys and stuffed animals. At the opposite end of the room was a baby grand piano. Colors here were bolder than the living room, yet not bright. This was a fun room. Grant could almost hear the laughter of family get-togethers.

  Brooke was watching him when he turned back to her. For a second their eyes met and held. Heat sprang up in the lower regions of his body, a heat he couldn’t control. He felt like he was back in high school, but he had turned thirty-seven on his last birthday. Yet, his body was acting as if it had only today learned about pu­berty. There was no doubt he wanted Brooke. But the signals he got from her were mixed. He felt there was a guard in front of her, someone who edited every­thing she thought before allowing the words to come from her mouth. He could almost see another presence behind her sad eyes. He wanted to pass through that invisible being and touch the woman behind it.

  "Do you play?" He indicated the piano to cover his discomfort. Taking a seat at the keyboard, he ran his fingers lightly across the keys.

  "Only enough for my own satisfaction," she lied.

  Robyn, sitting at the piano, suddenly intruded. She had played well. Often, her private concerts led to them making love.