by Kaylea Cross
He was dressed in a hospital gown. Dark chest hair peeked out at the top of it. A light blanket hid the lower part of his body. His right arm was hooked to an IV line, and she was glad to see that there was plenty of liquid in the bag.
Hannah swallowed hard around the lump that had formed in her throat.
“Jordan?” she questioned.
Once again he didn’t answer.
“He doesn’t respond when I talk to him,” Harkness muttered.
Maybe he doesn’t want to, she thought.
Trying to stay objective, she picked up Jordan’s wrist and began to take his pulse. Sixty-five—nice and steady. In a hospital he would have been hooked up to monitoring equipment, but she had to use a conventional cuff and stethoscope to take his blood pressure.
Conscious that the cousin was still behind her and that she was being watched closely, she released the bulb and listened for the rush of blood to come back to Jordan’s artery as she watched the gauge.
“How is he?” a female voice asked.
Startled, Hannah turned quickly. Two women were standing at the edge of the hospital screen. One was a blond in her forties. The other seemed to be a few years younger. The older woman wore a holiday sweater set in bold green and red. The younger one was in slacks and an expensive knit shirt with a scarf in a candy-cane motif.
The older woman crossed to Richard Harkness, reached for his hand, and knit her fingers with his. Her companion stood with her arms folded across her chest. Neither of them came close to the unconscious man.
“His blood pressure and pulse are both normal,” Hannah answered.
“I’m Paula Harkness, Richard’s wife,” the one in the holiday outfit said. “And this is Jordan’s sister, Stephanie.”
Hannah had been sure it was her. “You’re the one who found him unconscious?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How did you happen to go out there?”
“He hadn’t come back from his outing, and I was worried.”
“Lucky for him.”
“Yes.” She changed the subject and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m Hannah Andrews.”
“The new nurse. We’ve had several.”
“And others quit?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Hannah pressed.
“I really don’t know. Maybe we should have a third shift.”
“That would be helpful,” Hannah answered.
Stephanie cleared her throat. “I hope you can also take charge of my brother’s physical therapy for the time being,”
Hannah frowned. “I thought a physical therapist was on staff.”
“He disagreed on the treatment protocol.”
“Disagreed with whom?”
“Dr. Stanford. The doctor thought it would be better if we got someone else. Until then, he hopes you and the other nurse can keep Jordan in good shape.”
“I’ll try,” she said. What else could she say? That she thought her patient ought to be in a hospital, where there wouldn’t be any question about whether or not he got the proper treatment? Not if she didn’t want to find herself back on the road in about five minutes, heading home.
“I’m sure you’d like us to let you do your job,” Stephanie said, motioning to the others to follow her out. She paused in the doorway. “We’ve already had dinner, but we can send up a tray for you.”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
When the door closed behind them, Hannah let out a sigh of relief. She hardly knew these people, but she knew enough to realize she didn’t like them. She sincerely hoped her contact with them would be minimal.
Turning back to Jordan, she said, “They’re gone.”
As before, he didn’t answer, and she wondered if this was the time to try and communicate with him. Not just with words but with her special talent.
In addition to her normal nursing duties, that was what she’d come for. And she was anxious to do it, but she wasn’t in the best mental shape herself. And she didn’t want anyone walking in on her when she was trying to forge a bond with Jordan that transcended the normal bonds of time and space.
She grinned at the way she’d put it, then said aloud, “As I told you, I’m your new nurse, Hannah Andrews. I’m here to help you.”
He said nothing.
“Together we’re going to make sure you get better.” She gave a small laugh and added what she’d thought earlier, “Actually, I’m here to bridge the normal bonds of time and space. Do you think we can do it?”
He still didn’t respond.
Unable to stop herself, she pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, then traced the outline of his lips. Did they quiver under her touch, or was that her imagination?
“We’re going to get to know each other,” she said. “But I can wait a little while.” Switching the subject, she said in her most cheerful voice, “We’re going to get you well enough to get you out of this bedroom and into your beautiful garden. Would you like to feel the salt air on your face?”
As before, he was silent.
After laying aside the blood-pressure equipment, she crossed to the desk and quickly read the notes from the doctor and the nursing staff, noting the turnover of personnel. Why had so many nurses quit? Had someone made an effort to drive them away?
The farther she read through the notes, the more puzzled she became. As far as she could tell, there was no medical reason why Jordan was still in a coma. Yet he lay in bed, unresponsive.
Returning to him, she stared down into his face.
“What is it?” she whispered. “What’s keeping you from waking up?”
His eyes were still closed, and he said nothing. Switching her attention, she lowered the metal bars on the side of the bed, then began to check his body, moving his arms, making a more careful assessment of the muscle tone—assuring herself that his physical deterioration had been minimal. It looked as if the PT had been doing the right things, and she planned to keep it up.
“Your arm muscles are in good shape,” she said, then pulled the sheet and blanket down and ran her hand along one leg before bending it, lifting his leg and moving the knee toward his chest.
The action pulled up his short hospital gown, exposing his genitals. She couldn’t help herself. She stared at them. His penis was exceptionally long and thick, and she couldn’t stop herself from thinking about what kind of lover he would be. Again. Because she’d speculated about that when she’d watched the videos of him and seen his masculine but graceful movements.
“Stop it,” she told herself. “You’re here to wake him up, not make love with him.” But the thought flickered through her mind that that might be an effective way to communicate with him.
She was still holding the sheet when she heard the door open, then footsteps approaching. Quickly she dropped the sheet and took a step back as Mrs. Estes walked in, holding a tray covered with a red and white checkered napkin.
The housekeeper gave her a measuring look. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Assessing his physical condition,” Hannah answered, feeling her cheeks redden.
Mrs. Estes’s expression seemed to say, “I’ll bet,” but she didn’t voice the comment, only set the tray down on the table across from the bed. “You can put this out in the hall when you’re finished, and I’ll pick it up later.”
“Thank you.”
When the woman had left, Hannah breathed out a little sigh. Crossing to the table, she lifted the cover on the tray and found slices of chicken breast with some kind of curry sauce, rice pilaf, and peas. And there was also a scoop of what looked like raspberry sorbet.
Her stomach was in knots, and she wished she could get rid of the food by flushing it down the toilet. Instead, she forced herself to take a few bites of the chicken and rice. Then she picked up the cup of sorbet and ate a bite.
“This is good,” she said to Jordan. Returning to him, she held the spoon under his nose, then put a little on his lips. It was col
d of course, and she saw a shiver go through him. Then his tongue flicked out the barest bit and tasted the confection.
Good.
She blinked. Had she heard that word inside her head? Had Jordan spoken to her?
“Jordan?”
Um.
Elation leaped inside her. He’d responded to the smell and the sweet raspberry taste, and then he’d spoken to her. Unless she was making it up.
“Do you want more?”
Before he could answer, someone spoke behind her.
She’d been so focused on Jordan that she hadn’t been aware of anyone else coming in.
“What are you doing with that spoon?”
“I’m … stimulating his sense of taste,” she said as she turned around to face Richard Harkness, the cousin who had escorted her up here.
Lord, was there going to be a parade of visitors into the sickroom? Well, she probably should expect it, since she was the new nurse, and they’d want to have a look at her.
“Is that good for him?”
She swallowed. “I hope so.”
Harkness looked from her to Jordan. “Can an unconscious patient respond to … stimulation?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my cousin is a very … um … dynamic guy, with many appetites. Food was always one of them.”
She nodded tightly, not liking the tone of his voice.
“And there are others you might investigate,” he said. “You know, in the interest of research into his condition.”
She gave him a wide-eyed look. Was he suggesting that she initiate a sexual relationship with the patient? So he could catch her at it and get her dismissed?
She might have commented, but she wasn’t going to say anything that would put her in a questionable position.
“I’ll leave you to your duties,” he said.
She nodded, relieved when he left the room.
He always was a bastard.
“What?”
Before Jordan could answer—if he was going to answer, a loud bang in the hall made her jump. She hurried to the door and stepped out, seeing a dolly with a chest of drawers lying on its side.
A tall, balding man wearing jeans and a tee shirt looked at her apologetically.
“Sorry.”
“What happened?”
“I was taking this chest to your room, and the wheel caught on the carpet. You’re the new nurse, right?”
“Yes. I’m Hannah Andrews.”
“Carl Padilla.” He hesitated for a second. “I guess I’m the jack-of-all-trades around here.”
“Nice to meet you,” she answered, thinking that she didn’t particularly care for the man.
“You come up from San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to get down there.”
“Yes, well, I should get back to my patient.”
His eyes flicked to somewhere behind her. “Just a minute.”
“Yes?”
“This chest okay with you?”
“Of course.” Before he could say something else, she turned and went back into Jordan’s room.
Her patient was lying in bed where she’d left him. Only now he seemed different. Less responsive, more sunk into a comatose state.
Chapter Five
Hannah stared at Jordan’s still features, making her wonder if she’d made up the words she’d thought he’d spoken.
“Jordan?” she asked again, hearing the hope and also the disappointment in her voice as she looked closely at his face. He’d seemed more awake. Now he had apparently slipped back into a deeper sleep.
But the incident had given her reason for optimism. She was sure he had communicated with her. And he could do it again. She hoped.
She paced to the door, then back again as she thought of Harkness’s snide suggestion. Did he know something she didn’t? Was a sexual relationship the key to reaching Jordan? Had he asked his wife to try it out?
She made a low sound and shook her head, hating the direction her mind was wandering.
Deliberately, she forced herself into another tactic. Turning back to Jordan, she said, “I’m going to give you a shave, now. I don’t know about you, but when I’m sick, I always feel better when I get cleaned up.”
She hurried across the room, through the dressing area, and into the palatial white marble bathroom. Beside one of the twin sinks was a tray holding a razor, shaving cream, a bowl, and a washcloth. She struggled to keep her hands steady as she ran the water until it was hot, filled the bowl, then carried the laden tray back into the bedroom.
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.
