Books by Fern Michaels
Sins of the Flesh
Sins of Omission
Return to Sender
Mr. and Miss Anonymous
Up Close and Personal
Fool Me Once
Picture Perfect
About Face
The Future Scrolls
Kentucky Sunrise
Kentucky Heat
Kentucky Rich
Plain Jane
Charming Lily
What You Wish For
The Guest List
Listen to Your Heart
Celebration
Yesterday
Finders Keepers
Annie’s Rainbow
Sara’s Song
Vegas Sunrise
Vegas Heat
Vegas Rich
Whitefire
Wish List
Dear Emily
The Godmothers Series:
Exclusive
The Scoop
The Sisterhood Novels:
Home Free
Déjà Vu
Cross Roads
Game Over
Deadly Deals
Vanishing Act
Razor Sharp
Under the Radar
Final Justice
Collateral Damage
Fast Track
Hokus Pokus
Hide and Seek
Free Fall
Sweet Revenge
Lethal Justice
The Jury
Vendetta
Payback
Weekend Warriors
Anthologies:
Holiday Magic
Snow Angels
Silver Bells
Comfort and Joy
Sugar and Spice
Let It Snow
A Gift of Joy
Five Golden Rings
Deck the Halls
Jingle All the Way
DÉJÀ VU
FERN MICHAELS
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2010 by MRK Productions
Fern Michaels is a Registered Trademark of First Draft, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.
Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-2249-7
eISBN-10: 1-4201-2249-5
First Kensington Books Hardcover Printing: October 2010
First Zebra Books Mass-Market Paperback Printing: January 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Books by Fern Michaels
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Prologue
Chapter 1
Prologue
Maggie Spritzer entered her office, turned on the lights, closed the door, kicked off her high heels, tossed her backpack in a chair, and sat down behind her desk. She wiggled her feet into a pair of scuffed sneakers without heels and settled down to do what she had done at 5:45 in the morning every day since becoming the EIC—read the current edition of the Post just as it hit the streets.
She could have read or skimmed through the online edition, but she was a newspaper person with every bone in her body. She was one of those people who needed to hold the paper in her hands and get black newsprint on her fingers. She was also the kind of person who would never, ever read a book on a Kindle or any of those other electronic devices. In her opinion, there was something bordering on the sacrilegious about doing that.
As she scanned the front page, her left hand was fumbling in the bag of sugary donuts she’d stopped to purchase on her way to the office. As her eyes followed the printed columns, her right hand was removing the lid of one of the two coffees she’d purchased at the donut shop.
Speed reader that she was, Maggie ripped through the paper, then went back and started over. The second time, she picked out a column, a tidbit, or a story that had caught her eye on the first go-round.
An hour from now, if given a quiz, Maggie would ace it, right down to the page and size of the article she was being quizzed on. “It’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she muttered to herself.
She frowned when she saw it on the Police Beat page. She read through the two-inch notice, then read it a second time. She saw notices like this every day. Why was this one bothering her? It was not until the third time she read it that she made the connection. Upscale medical building torched. Four offices burned beyond repair. Everything destroyed, including the medical files of the patients in each of the offices. Dermatology, OB-GYN, Plastic Surgery, Podiatry. Okayyy.
Building owned by the four doctors, who had been partners since 1983. Thriving practices. So what was it that was bothering her? She read the names of the doctors again and again, then one final time before it jumped out at her. Dr. Laura Valentine. “Yesssss!” Julia Webster, one of the original vigilantes, had worked with Dr. Valentine Julia had been a well-known plastic surgeon before her death.
The fire marshal was going to hold a press conference later that afternoon. Maggie made a mental note to tune in.
Maggie stared down at the address, her mind racing. She swept everything aside, turned on her computer, and hit the Google search button. She typed in Julia Webster’s name and waited. She read slowly, then clicked link after link until she had the full story on Julia Webster. Tears burned her eyes at what she remembered that had never been printed.
Scissors in hand, Maggie went back to the paper. She clipped the article on the fire, feeling sure that it meant something. What, she didn’t know. Yet. But the prestigious address in Georgetown was now engraved in her brain. Sooner or later, she’d figure it out. She always did.
Maggie peeled the skin off a banana and sat back in her swivel chair as she wondered how long it would take before she figured it out.
She bolted upright in the chair. Backup! Surely the doctors had a backup system in place in case something like this happened. Computers crashed. Viruses appeared out of nowhere. And then there was the patient confidentiality problem to deal with. About a year ago, Ted h
ad done a lengthy article on how businesses used outside backup systems just in case something like the fire happened. But if memory served her right, it was mostly small businesses and not medical offices because of the patient-doctor confidentiality thing. In the unlikely event the doctors didn’t have outside backup, it might mean they had their own personal software in place if something just like this took place.
Julia Webster.
Chapter 1
He was a kind man with kind eyes and ever so professional in his sterile white coat, a stethoscope hanging out of his pocket. His battered medical bag spoke of years of use. His name was Alfred Montrose, and he was President Martine Connor’s personal physician.
There was no formality in Connor’s private quarters. They were doctor and patient, who were also old friends. “The good news, Marti, is you’re going to live. The bad news is you are going to be a lot more miserable than you are right now for the next three or four days. I don’t like that you’re running a fever of 103, but it’s to be expected when you get the flu. Yes, I know, you never get sick, but you’re sick now, so suck it up. Lots of chicken soup, gallons of liquids, and bed rest. Let the vice president and your chief of staff take over for a few days. Both seem fairly competent. They are, aren’t they?” Montrose asked, a tinge of anxiety in his voice.
The president nodded. “Do the media have me dead and buried?”
Montrose laughed. “What I heard on the drive over here was that you had taken to your bed with some mysterious ailment. I suppose they’ll grill me when I leave here. Half your staff has it, Marti. I know it’s springtime, but these things don’t really go by the month of the year. They hit when they hit, and when they do, they spread like wildfire. Just because you’re the president doesn’t mean you are immune to catching a bug or two along the way.”
“No magic cures?” the president croaked.
“Nary a one, Madam President, other than a hot toddy. A cup of tea, honey, lemon, and cognac. Easy on the tea and heavy on the cognac. Makes you sweat out all the toxins. I don’t usually recommend this, because my patients want to go to the drugstore and pay outrageous sums of money for a bottle of pills.”
The president nodded. “I’ll give it a shot. When I was a little girl, my mother used to grease our chests with something called Musterole and wrap a warm towel around us. Then she’d string a bag of garlic around our necks. We used to get better right away. At least I think we did.”
“That’s because you weren’t able to stand the smell, so in spite of everything, you healed yourself. Been there and survived. So, do we understand each other, Marti? Bed rest, liquids, and more bed rest.”
“Yes, I understand. Thanks, Al.”
Alfred Montrose looked around as he packed up his medical bag. “Isn’t there some way you could … make this room more … personal?”
The president sighed. “I’m just temporary, Al. Family pictures, green plants, knickknacks, is that what you mean? What’s the point?”
“Sometimes the familiar is the best medicine of all. But if this works for you, then that’s all that matters.”
“When are you going to ask me, Al?”
Montrose struggled to look nonplussed. “Ask you what?”
“About my engagement? To Hank Jellicoe? Don’t you want to chastise me for my lousy choices in men? You were never bashful before I moved in here.”
Montrose removed his glasses and slipped them into his pocket. “I assumed your engagement was off. Even I know there are some things that are too personal and private to talk about. You are the president now, Marti, and I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries. As for Mr. Jellicoe, how could you know what the man was all about? People tend to let us see only the best side of them, tell us what we want to hear. It’s always been that way. We all make poor choices from time to time. They say the trick is to learn from those mistakes.”
“I guess I didn’t read that part of the rule. My track record with men is beyond lousy. It would appear I don’t learn from my mistakes. I knew there was something wrong, Al. I let it slide. Henry was so … in control… so with the program, I’m still having trouble accepting it all. What do you think I should do with the ring? I’m asking friend to friend.”
Montrose chuckled. “That’s all above my pay grade. You want an answer, I see. Well, then, I think I’d put it in a box and write on the lid, ‘This belongs to someone I used to know,’ and let it go. One day you’ll know what to do with it. Is it valuable?” he asked curiously.
The president tried to laugh and ended up coughing. “I suppose it could feed a third-world country for a little while. You know what, Al? I’m not even sure if it’s real. I’m beginning to have my doubts. It looks real, but I’m no authority on diamonds. Just for the hell of it, would you mind getting it appraised for me?”
“Sure. I can do it when I leave here. I’ll bring it with me tonight when I come back to check on you.”
“Is that necessary? You coming back to check on me?” the president asked as she rummaged in her night table drawer for the ring she’d wrapped in a wad of tissues. She tossed it to him.
“No, it’s not necessary, but it’s the way things work around here. If they could, they’d have me babysitting you and reading you bedtime stories. Try and behave yourself, Madam President,” Montrose joked.
When the door closed behind the doctor, Martine Connor yanked at one of her pillows and started punching it with the little strength she had. Then she started to cry. Eventually, she cried herself to sleep, her dreams filled with her one-of-a-kind memories of Hank Jellicoe. When she woke two hours later, her pillow wet with her tears, she punched at it again and again, then got up and pulled on a ratty robe from her college days. It felt like an old friend as she wrapped herself in it. If there was one thing she needed at that moment, it was an old friend. She slipped her feet into fuzzy-bear slippers and made her way to the kitchen, where she poured herself a glass of apple juice and drank it down in two long gulps. Then she made herself a cup of hot tea and followed the doctor’s order, light on the tea and heavy on the cognac.
The president reached for a box of tissues as she made her way to the living room, where she stretched out on a chocolate-colored sofa. She gulped at the hot drink and somehow managed to finish it. After she pulled up a bright purple afghan her secretary had given her for Christmas the first year of her presidency, she clicked on the television and proceeded to channel surf as tears rolled down her cheeks. If the world could only see how unpresidential she looked right now.
The president reached behind her for the pillows and fluffed them up. Within seconds, she was exhausted from the effort. She leaned back into the nest she’d made for herself and closed her watery eyes. Eventually, she dozed off as the twenty-four-hour newscasters felt compelled to drone on and on about nothing because it was a slow news day. As she drifted into a deep sleep, she started to dream, one wild dream after another, until she woke drenched in sweat. She didn’t have to touch her forehead with the underside of her arm, the way her mother used to do when she came down with a bad cold, to know her fever was gone.
The president wiped at her forehead, face, and neck with a handful of tissues. Maybe she wasn’t going to die after all. She picked up the remote control and clicked until she hit the USA Network to watch a rerun of NCIS. She wished, and not for the first time, that she had someone on her staff like Mark Harmon. She did love Leroy Jethro Gibbs’s wicked smile. She wondered what would happen if she invited the entire cast and crew to the White House for dinner. Maybe she would do just that before the new season started in September. The more she thought about it, the better she liked the idea. And that idea brought another one swimming to the surface.
The president leaned back into her nest and let her mind race. Her idea was so over the top, so outside the box, she knew she could make it work. And if she couldn’t make it work, she seriously did not belong in her job. She smiled as her mind continued to race one way, then another. Within minutes, s
he had herself so psyched that she wobbled out to the kitchen to make another toddy. If one had worked so quickly, a second one should be the magic bullet. Maybe she could sweat out more toxins, and by tomorrow, she’d be almost totally recovered. She would definitely have to be at the top of her game to put this particular plan into action.
Martine dozed and woke, dozed and woke until she woke from a light sleep to see her doctor standing over her. She smiled when he reached down to touch her forehead. Alfred was definitely old school. “I’m feeling much better, and the underside of my arm told me earlier, after the first toddy, actually, that my fever had broken. Would that be your assessment, Alfred?”
Deja Vu Page 1
