by Meryl Sawyer
“Awesome,” he said out loud, realizing that in all his thirty-four years he had never watched a sunrise or a sunset. “Life’s too short not to take the time to enjoy it. Too damn short.”
Roused from its cradle in the ocean, the amber sun chased away a ribbon of low-lying mist. The soothing indigo of the sea gradually became a breathtaking turquoise as the sun rose. Dazzling in the morning light, the sand was as white as new fallen snow. It was easy to understand why Trevor had come to Half Moon Bay, fell under its spell. And stayed.
Matt showered and put on shorts and a T-shirt, not bothering with a belt or shoes. It was early, and he was sure no one would be up yet. He took his time walking from his suite to the kitchen. The open-plan interior of the home featured a sculpture gallery. He’d been too exhausted last night to inspect Trevor’s latest acquisitions.
He was examining a contemporary bronze piece, trying to decide if it was a man in some weird position or a bird, when he heard a woman singing quietly in the kitchen. Trevor had told him that he had several people staying with him, but it was surprising someone was up already. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone and being forced to make small talk, but the smell of coffee lured him into the kitchen.
Like the rest of the house, the spacious kitchen had an airy feel with light woods and creamy ivory granite counters. The French doors were open to the exterior, where wicker chairs surrounded a glass-topped table. The morning breeze gently ruffled the palms shading the house.
Two of Trevor’s cats were lounging on a plush wicker chaise facing the beach, while another was inside eating from one of the eight bowls lined up against the pantry wall. Trevor had a thing for stray cats. And stray people.
“’Mornin’,” a young redhead greeted him with a southern drawl. “Coffee?”
“Sure. I’ll get it.” He went over to the Brewmatic and poured himself a mug of coffee while she flitted around the kitchen like a hummingbird on uppers.
She sported a diamond stud in one nostril, a gold safety pin pierced the edge of her eyebrow, and a series of studs and gold hoops paraded up her earlobe to the top of her ear. She smiled at him and revealed yet another stud in the tip of her tongue.
Yuck!
Okay, so piercing was the rage with kids these days. What bothered him was her outtie belly button peeking over the top of her hip-hugger shorts. From it dangled some damn gold charm. It made him wonder what else she’d pierced.
Without saying a word, he took his coffee outside and sat in a chair facing the water, hoping she wouldn’t join him. No such luck. A second later she plopped down in the chair beside him.
He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t turn toward her. He’d begun his career in journalism as a cub reporter on the police beat and had developed his observational skills. One look and he’d memorized her face and come to some conclusions about her.
She looked young. Seventeen or eighteen max, but she was probably twenty-five. Her red hair contrasted vividly with her pale gray eyes, making them appear even lighter. A clan of freckles gathered on the bridge of a nose surgically snipped a bit too short.
“I’m Bubbles. Bubbles McGee, and you’re Matthew Jensen, right?” She spoke with a pronounced drawl, the stud in her tongue flashing at him. “Trevor told me all about you.”
Matt doubted Trevor had told her much. It wasn’t his style.
“You two were roommates at Yale, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Could Bubbles possibly be her real name, he wondered. But he didn’t ask. He just wanted to be alone. He’d slept the sleep of the dead last night, yet he had the disturbing feeling he’d dreamed about Shelly.
He was convinced she was close to regaining consciousness. What would he do when she did? He didn’t want to be involved with her, but he couldn’t desert her either.
Bubbles rattled on and on and on about how Trevor’s cats were descended from Hemingway’s six-toed cats. It wasn’t true, of course. Trevor had rescued them from various places, but Bubbles sounded sincere, proof positive that a southern accent could make BS convincing.
“Well, gotta go,” Bubbles informed him. “I have to catch the first commuter launch to town. If I don’t get there real early, some twit, like, takes my spot in front of Margaritaville. Do you know what she’s trying to sell?”
“I’ll bite. What?”
Bubbles leaned close and whispered as if imparting top secret information. “The twit is selling The Mother Teresa Sex Diaries and charging ten dollars.”
“Sounds like fascinating reading.”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t, like, spend my hard-earned money on erotica. I’m a legitimate business-woman.”
Standing on the sidewalk in front of Margaritaville? Yeah, right.
“I’m saving money to open my own shop.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Only a fool would have asked what kind of shop.
“Right now I sell insurance.”
God forbid.
“Wanna see?” From the paisley tote she’d brought with her, she whipped out a scroll of parchment paper secured with a curly red ribbon. She untied it and shoved it between his nose and his coffee cup.
The bold black letters at the top read ALIEN ABDUCTION INSURANCE.
Only in Key West. Okay, okay, it worked in L.A. too.
“Matthew, you’re just the type aliens love to kidnap. You need my UFO insurance.”
“Really? Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve always wanted aliens to beam me up to their spaceship and have their way with me.”
Bubbles rolled her eyes as she stood up. “You’re no fun. I’m outta here.”
She flitted away and left Matt alone to watch a great blue heron fishing in the surf. Matt was certain he’d seen one the last time he visited, but he hadn’t bothered to notice what a fine coloring job Mother Nature had done. The bird was a pale blue gray with darker blue wings. Its tail and breast feathers were startling blue like a rare sapphire. His upper legs contrasted sharply with the rest of his body, a vivid orange like its bill.
“Good morning,” Trevor called from the kitchen. “How’d you sleep?”
“Great, thanks.” Matt stood and went into the kitchen.
Trevor was barefoot too, and wearing shorts and a tropical-print shirt. While Matt looked like an unmade bed, Trevor could have stepped off a page in GQ. Not only was Trevor the kind of man that women drooled over, he had a certain flair. It was something you were born with, not something you could acquire.
Matt had grown up on the mean streets of Chicago, a scrappy kid who always got into fights. If fate hadn’t kicked in, sending him to Yale on a scholarship, Matt would probably be in prison right now. Trevor had come from the opposite end of the spectrum. He’d grown up on an estate in Connecticut and prepped at Choate before coming to Yale.
A street fighter from Chicago and a silver spoon, yet they’d become best friends, a relationship that had withstood the test of time and distance. Next to his sister, Emily, the only person Matt was close to was Trevor.
He slowly walked into the kitchen, careful to avoid a number of cats who’d appeared out of nowhere at the sound of Trevor’s voice. They darted across the room and positioned themselves at the bowls lined up along the far wall.
“I’m going to whip up an omelet,” Trevor told him as yet another cat appeared and jumped up onto the counter to watch. “Let me make one for you.”
“Now you’re talking. I haven’t eaten since—” He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d been cleaning out his apartment in Manhattan so he could sublease it, when the call about Shelly came. He must have had lunch earlier that day. Maybe not. He’d lost his appetite the day he’d quit his job.
Trevor cracked egg after egg, never once missing the bowl or dropping a bit of the shell into it. “Can you stay for a while, or do you have to rush back to Exposé?”
“I want to see what I can do for Shelly, then I’d like to stay down here until I decide what I want to do.” Matt leaned against the ce
nter island where Trevor was working and tried to appear casual. “I’ve left Exposé.”
He saw the questions in Trevor’s green eyes, but his friend didn’t ask them. After a moment’s hesitation, he added the last egg to the bowl. Matt had planned to explain the situation to Trevor, but he wasn’t ready yet. Telling Emily had been hard enough.
“Stay here as long as you like, Matt. I’m renovating a house on Angela Street. If you want, you might be able to help us with the house history.”
“Sure.”
Trevor owned a very profitable gallery on Duval Street, the main drag, but his passion in life was the Old Island Restoration Association. Key West had more houses on the historical register than any other city. Trevor had been involved in preserving these historic homes since he’d come to the Keys.
“How’s Emily?” Trevor asked as he beat the eggs with a whisk.
“Great. I spent last weekend in Nantucket with them. She’s still trying to have a baby.”
“Hey, that’s wonderful. You’ll be an uncle soon.”
An uncustomary note of regret colored Trevor’s voice, and Matt knew he still took his family situation hard. His father was a domineering man who controlled the family. When Trevor’s father disowned him, the rest of Trevor’s relatives had been too intimidated to ignore Graham Adams’s wishes.
Trevor took out an omelet pan from a drawer in the island, then walked over to the commercial style Viking range and turned on a burner. Matt sat on a barstool and watched. “That’s Bingo,” Trevor said as the enormous one-eyed cat who’d been on the island plopped down on Matt’s lap like a bag of cement. “Bingo rules.”
The apricot-colored cat rubbed against Matt, purring for all he was worth, scrutinizing him with one big green eye. The big cat was cute, but Matt had always preferred dogs. Suddenly, he remembered Shelly had a dog. “Where would the police have taken Shelly’s dog?”
Trevor tilted his blond head to the side so he could see Matt and still keep his eye on the omelet. “The Humane Society has a facility not far from the house we’re renovating. Do you want me to check on her dog?”
“If you have the time.”
Trevor took a bowl of sliced mushrooms and shredded cheddar out of the refrigerator. He artfully arranged the mushrooms in the omelet pan. Then he asked, “What do you hear from Kelly Taylor?”
Matt ran his hand over Bingo’s sleek coat, thinking about Kelly. She had attended Yale with Trevor and Matt. Later Matt and Kelly had worked together as journalists. They had been inseparable once and he’d thought Kelly was “the one,” but it hadn’t worked out.
He’d assigned her the best-selling story Exposé had run last year. Logan McCord, who had been kidnapped as a child and disappeared for twenty-one years, had suddenly reappeared, working with the elite Cobra Force Antiterrorist Unit. His story had fascinated the nation.*
And Kelly Taylor.
“The little boy Kelly and Logan adopted”—Matt had to think for a minute to come up with the kid’s name—“Rafi, is doing great. He’s learned to ride his own pony, and stuff like that.”
Like a Cordon Bleu chef, Trevor flipped the omelet over, then smiled at Matt. Something inside Matt’s chest tightened. Telling Trevor about his problems was going to be hell. Emily was Matt’s sister by blood, but Trevor was his best friend. And Matt was reminded of an old saying: Friends are the family we pick for ourselves.
Amy awoke by degrees, sensing rather than seeing her surroundings. She heard the low hum of the machines and the almost inaudible drip-drip of the IV. There was a slight bustle of movement in the ICU.
She allowed one eye to drift open slowly. A woman in a white uniform was tending the other ICU patient. The disgusting male nurse was nowhere in sight. She opened the other eye and tried to clear her drug-fogged brain.
Matt—whoever he was—did not know Dexxter Foxx. Her life was not in danger from Matt, but what had that hideous man done to her last night? The shot he’d given her had kicked in just as he’d lifted the sheet.
She thought her body might give her a clue about what had happened, but pain numbed every muscle, rendering her motionless. A film of sweat crusted her body, yet she was chilled. It was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything with the white-hot pain searing through her.
The gauze restricted her vision, but she managed to watch the female nurse tending to the other woman. The nurse treated her gently, a stark contrast to the male nurse on the night shift.
“I’ve got to make her understand … somehow,” whispered a voice inside her head. She did not want to spend another night at the mercy of the male nurse. Imagining what he might have done brought the bile up in her throat.
Suspended in hell, unable to speak or make anyone understand her, was like being trapped in the twilight zone. There had to be a way to help herself. She thought a moment and realized there was a way to communicate using her left hand.
There was no point in pretending to be unconscious now. Matt was no threat to her; if anything, he might help her. Where was he?
The nurse walked over to her bed and picked up the chart. Holding her breath to keep the pain at bay, she raised her left hand. “Take my hand, please,” the little voice inside her head begged.
The nurse dropped the chart, clearly astonished at what she was seeing. “Glory be! You’re—you’re”—she peered intently at her gauze-shrouded eyes—“awake.”
She lifted her hand higher. Hold my hand, please. Touch me.
The nurse spun around, saying, “I’ll get the doctor.”
Exhausted from the effort of lifting her hand, she closed her eyes and rested her good arm. Surely, she would have better luck with the doctor.
A few minutes later the doctor she’d seen yesterday walked into the room. She opened her eyes, telling herself to find the strength to lift her hand again. It took all her power, but she managed to raise her hand and wiggle her fingers.
“We’re better today, aren’t we?”
We? Why did doctors always use that word? There was no we in this. She was all alone with her pain, trapped with the nurse from hell.
She waved her hand again, sending a bolt of pain through her chest. Ignore it, she told herself. She had lived with mental pain her entire life. She could endure this.
She had to touch the doctor to be able to have a prayer of explaining what was happening. He studied her chart, then scribbled a few notes, either not seeing her hand or not realizing it was important.
“Keep your head on the pillow. Your jaw was badly broken. It’s been wired shut. It’ll heal faster if you keep your head level and don’t move.”
So that’s why she couldn’t talk. He rattled on about her other injuries, and she listened, praying for an opportunity to use her hand to communicate. She mustered the strength to lift it again and crook her forefinger, signaling for him to come closer.
He checked his watch, missing the sign. “It’s not quite eight. Matthew Jensen probably isn’t awake yet. I’ll wait until nine, then tell him you’re conscious. He’s been worried about you.”
Pain raging through her like wildfire, she waved her hand. Too late. The doctor was already turning away.
Matthew Jensen. The man in the blonde’s journal. He thinks I’m the woman he loves so much. What had happened to the woman? She must have died in the crash, she decided.
The journal had detailed the perfume, sexy lingerie, and other gifts he had given her. They had been so very much in love. From what she’d read in the journal, their sex life would have made Satan blush.
She didn’t dwell on what it would be like to have a man—especially a man like Matthew Jensen—in love with her. She had learned that ugly lesson years ago. But she did pray for him to return and take her hand again.
It was her only chance.
The nurse came in and out several times, changing IV bags and consulting the chart. She struggled to get the woman to take her hand, but her efforts with the doctor had depleted her reserves of strength. Now
all she could do was raise her hand a scant inch above the sheet and flex her fingers.
The woman never noticed.
Minutes lapsed into an hour, then at least two hours passed. There was no clock she could see, so it was hard to tell. She waited and waited for Matthew to come.
“Here’s a little something to make you feel better.”
She looked up, realizing she had drifted off. The nurse was preparing to give her a shot. Oh, no. She’d miss Matt. The attempt to wave off the syringe produced nothing more than a flop of the wrist. The needle entered the shunt and the room disappeared seconds later.
When she opened her eyes again, the shift had changed and a new female nurse was tending the other patient. Had Matt come, then left? It didn’t seem likely that he would leave before he spoke to her.
A shaft of sunlight caught her attention, and she slowly turned her head toward it. The room was on the ground floor near two palm trees. Judging by their shadows, it was late afternoon. In a few hours the night shift would take over. The revolting male nurse would return.
“Matt, please come soon,” she silently pleaded. “Hold my hand again, please. I need you. Oh, how I need you.”
* See Tempting Fate.
Chapter 5
“How’s she doing?” Matt asked the nurse.
“Shelly seems a little agitated. She keeps waving her hand.”
He’d stopped at the ICU nurses’ station on his way to see Shelly. It was dinnertime at the hospital, and trays were being delivered to rooms adjacent to the ICU. From outside the building he heard the high-pitched yodel of an ambulance arriving.
Since receiving the doctor’s call that morning, Matt had spent hours trying to determine if Shelly had health insurance. Under Cobra, she had coverage from her previous employer for her accident injuries, but it did not cover the reconstructive surgery necessary to make her face look normal again. Matt had tracked down the owner of the Key West Daily, Shelly’s new employer.
The man flat refused to advance Shelly any money for plastic surgery. Worse, he wouldn’t hold her job for her, insisting he needed someone immediately. Matt couldn’t blame him. The paper was a two-bit operation and probably could not afford it.
