Hideaway

by Alers, Rochelle

  Martin’s voice was low, the words pleading, and for the first time since Luis Lopez had come to know Martin he recognized humility in the man. He didn’t know who the woman was who lay on the table in the dining area, but he knew she had to be special.

  Against his better judgment, Luis ordered, “Get a couple of sheets and spread one out on the countertop. I’ll use the other one to cover her body.” He mumbled under his breath about not operating under sterile conditions, but he mumbled to himself. Martin had left to do his bidding.

  Parris woke the following afternoon and stared up at the nut-brown face belonging to a smiling figure dressed in a white uniform. She couldn’t return the friendly smile so she nodded instead.

  “Well, gal,” the nurse said, “Ruby Johnson is going to take good care of you.” She placed a cool hand on her forehead. “It looks like Dr. Lopez did a fine job of taking care of your jaw. A real fine job indeed.” She smoothed down a lightweight blanket, folding it back to the foot of the large bed.

  “You’re real lucky, gal,” Ruby continued. “You managed to get yourself one of the best surgeons in the state and one of the best-looking men on the planet for a fiancé.”

  Parris sat up but Ruby moved quickly, pushing her gently down to the pillows cradling her shoulders. “Stay put or you’ll pull the IV out of your hand.” Ruby’s friendly smile faded. “You’re not allowed out of bed. I’ll let you know when you can get out.”

  Closing her eyes, Parris wanted to scream that she didn’t have a fiancé.

  “Mr. Cole said he would cook for you once Dr. Lopez orders the removal of the IV. But you know of course everything will have to be pureed and ingested through a straw. And you’ll probably lose some weight before you’re able to chew solid foods. Not that you can afford to lose an ounce. You’re nothing but skin and bones already.”

  Ruby Johnson, with more than thirty-five years of experience as a hospital staff nurse, relished her second career in private duty nursing. She worked when she wanted to, was offered a choice of cases and the per diem rate of pay was excellent.

  Parris listened and watched Ruby moving around the bedroom. Turning her head slowly, she examined the space, her uninjured eye registering sliding doors leading to a balcony. She heard the distant roar of rushing water through the screen before realizing the increasing roar was within her own head.

  She closed her eyes, suffering in silence as the dull throbbing pain in her face intensified. She needed something for the pain. Tears, she couldn’t control, leaked from under her lids, over her cheeks and into her hairline. The pillow beneath her head was dotted with moisture when Martin walked into the room to look in on her.

  “What’s the matter, Parris?”

  She opened her eyes and saw Martin by the bed. Her lower lip trembled uncontrollably as her chest rose and fell under the cover of a sheet.

  His face loomed closer. “Are you in pain?” he asked perceptively. She nodded once. He disappeared. He reappeared almost as quickly with Ruby at his side.

  Parris felt the sharp prick of the syringe in her hip, and within minutes everything around her disappeared.

  She floated in and out of consciousness for the next twenty-four hours, feeling full even though she hadn’t eaten, not remembering who came and went in the bedroom, nor the day or the time.

  But the first face she saw when she woke up, clear-eyed and clear-headed, was Martin’s. He sat on a chair beside the bed, reading a newspaper. She remembered him wearing a black silk shirt not a white T-shirt. She also remembered his long hair floating down around his shoulders not queued at the nape of his neck with an elastic band. His long hair seemed more appropriate for an artist or musician than a corporate executive. She moaned softly and Martin rose to his feet, smiling. He placed the newspaper on a side table.

  “Welcome back.”

  How long have I been gone? she mused, trying valiantly to return his smile. Her jaw had been wired so tightly that it was almost impossible for her to part her lips.

  Moving closer to the bed, Martin took her hand in his, examining the purpling bruises from the IV feedings. Luis had ordered removal of the IV earlier that morning. He wanted his patient ambulatory as quickly as possible.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what day it is?” he questioned, reading her mind. She nodded. “It’s Monday.”

  Monday! How did she lose two days? Her eyes widened. She was supposed to be in Santa Fe.

  Martin noted her agonized expression. “Is there someone you want me to call to let them know where you are?”

  She nodded, trying to communicate. She pantomimed writing. He released her hand and opened a drawer to the table and withdrew a pad and pen.

  Parris pulled her body up in a sitting position, supporting her back against two pillows. The sheet fell down to her waist, revealing an oversized T-shirt. She was certain the shirt was Martin’s.

  She took the pad and pen from him, writing, Please call office and let them know that I had an accident. Her head came up and she saw Martin watching her.

  “Don’t worry, Parris. I won’t give them any details.”

  Closing her eyes briefly, she nodded.

  “I recovered your purse,” Martin informed her. “I took it off the front seat of Owen Lawson’s car after…” He didn’t finish the statement. What he didn’t say was that he had taken it because he didn’t want Parris linked to the police investigation which had ensued after the man’s body was discovered early Sunday morning by an elderly man who strolled the beach every morning, rain or shine, since his retirement.

  Local newspapers reported that the Palm Beach Police Department was baffled by the crime. It didn’t appear to be a robbery because the victim’s jewelry and money were not taken and the victim said he wasn’t able to give the police a description of who had assaulted him.

  Parris felt a fist of fear squeeze her chest at the mention of Owen’s name. Martin knew who had tried to kill her.

  She began to shake as the fearful images rushed back to attack her again. Gasping, she panted in terror. The pressure on her chest wouldn’t allow her to breathe. The more she struggled the more frantic she became and she couldn’t free herself. Then came the wet salty cold.

  The pounding waves tossed her high up in the air before sending her crashing down to the ocean depths. Water rushed into her mouth and she coughed and coughed until her throat was raw and burning. She screamed and nothing came out.

  She couldn’t make a sound because someone had placed a hand over her mouth.

  Owen! Owen was trying to kill her!

  “Parris! It’s okay, Parris. It’s over, baby.”

  Martin held her, one hand making circular motions on her back, the other cradling her head and pressing her face to his shoulder.

  “It’s all right, darling,” he crooned, attempting to comfort her. “No one is going to hurt you.” She sniffed loudly, her fingernails biting into his shoulders. “I’m here, Parris. I’m here for you.”

  He felt as if someone had cut out a piece of his heart as she cried without making a sound, her tears soaking the front of shirt, her shoulders heaving uncontrollably.

  Parris appeared calm until he mentioned Owen Lawson’s name. What was his connection to her?

  A look of determination settled across his features. He’d do what he should’ve done the moment he discovered who Parris’s attacker was. At first he thought of Philip Trent. Philip was the most adept troubleshooter ColeDiz had hired, however, Martin changed his mind about utilizing the services of an employee. His association with Parris was too new, too personal. She was the first woman to spend more than two nights under his roof since he bought the town house six months ago.

  He would hire a private investigator to check further into Owen Lawson’s background.

  Luis Lopez sat on the patio at Martin’s house, admiring the fauna surrounding the property. Potted palms, cacti and yucca plants spanned the length of the patio, providing maximum privacy from neighboring residenc
es.

  Running a hand over his close-cut prematurely graying hair, he forced his attention back to what Martin was saying.

  “I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’ve seen enough cases of post-traumatic-stress-disorder to tell you that Parris is receiving the best medical care available to her.”

  Martin visually examined the young doctor. Luis’s eyes shone like copper pennies, crinkling attractively whenever he smiled, and he always had a ready smile for his patients as he offered words of comfort. A sprinkling of freckles across his nose and cheeks made him appear younger, offsetting the effects of his graying hair.

  He and Luis had grown up together. They attended the same schools only separating when Luis attended Harvard Medical School while he stayed in Florida to earn a M.B.A. Luis had received offers to work for several large teaching hospitals in New York City and Boston, but he turned them down. Luis claimed he couldn’t adjust to the long winters.

  “Are you saying that she’ll spend the rest of her life experiencing flashbacks?” He had confided to Luis the circumstances surrounding her injury.

  “No, I’m not. She may have them for a while. What she needs is to feel safe, protected. Make her convalescence as comfortable and stress-free as possible because it’s likely her face will heal a lot faster than her internal scars. She has to trust you, Martin. You saved her life.”

  I hope you’re right, Luis, Martin told himself.

  Chapter 3

  Martin strolled into the plushly carpeted reception area at ColeDiz and smiled at the receptionist.

  “Good morning, Grace.”

  “Good—good morning, Martin,” she stuttered, glancing up at a large silver and brass clock on the wall to her right.

  He arched a sweeping eyebrow at her before looking at the clock. It was ten o’clock.

  Grace lowered her head, bright color creeping up her face and matching her shimmering red hair. She stared at Martin’s retreating back, rising slightly to watch him as he made his way down the carpeted corridor to his office. She was still staring when one of the secretaries from the legal department walked into the reception area.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked Grace.

  “It’s not what I’m looking for, but who I was looking at,” Grace admitted.

  The secretary registered Grace’s dreamy expression. “Martin Cole,” they whispered in unison, shaking their heads in wonderment.

  “Mercy!” the secretary gasped.

  “Hel-lo,” Grace intoned.

  * * *

  Martin’s personal secretary’s solemn expression did not change as he greeted her cheerfully. Forty-two-year-old Joan Shaw was mature and competent. Highly skilled, she supervised the clerical staff and shielded her boss from any unnecessary distraction. Her dark eyes were intelligent, her dark skin smooth and unlined, and her no-nonsense business manner respected.

  Martin made his way into his own office and hung his suit jacket in a closet artfully concealed along a wall of mirrored glass. This morning he did not take the time to admire the comfortable spaciousness of the room where he spent most of his time.

  There were days when he worked in his office for twelve hours, conducting meetings over conference calls from three different times zones and eating dinner when most people were either sleeping or readying themselves to go to bed. He had accomplished in four years what most men who had worked at ColeDiz hadn’t in twenty. He tripled the corporation’s net profit.

  His office was one of many in a suite taking up the entire eighth floor of a modern downtown West Palm Beach office building. He had taken over the day-to-day operation of ColeDiz yet he refused to occupy the executive wing along with vice-presidents, attorneys and financial officers whose solid oak doors with gleaming brass name plates identified them as the corporate elite.

  His refusal to move his office angered his father but enhanced his standing with the support staff. He was always available and approachable.

  Checking the telephone messages lined up like soldiers on his desk, Martin quickly prioritized their importance.

  “What’s this I hear about you coming in late this morning?” came a familiar voice through the intercom.

  “Guilty as charged, Dad,” he confessed after pressing a button on the small box.

  “Is this a one-time offense or do you intend to join the other offenders who completely ignore the nine-to-five work schedule?” Samuel Cole was pedantic about punctuality.

  “I don’t know, Dad. It all depends on how I feel tomorrow morning,” Martin teased.

  “You can come in anytime you want tomorrow. Just don’t be late for your flight to San José on Wednesday. You’ve been booked for a seven A.M. departure from Miami International.”

  Reaching over, he picked up the telephone receiver. “Get someone to cover for me.”

  An explosive expletive crackled through the instrument. “You have to go, Martin!”

  “I don’t have to go, Father.”

  Samuel registered his son’s firm refusal. It wasn’t often that he and his oldest child opposed each other but whenever Martin referred to him as Father he knew any ensuing dialogue would not be amicable.

  “What’s up, Martin?”

  How could he tell his father that he couldn’t go to Costa Rica because of Parris; that he couldn’t leave her; not now.

  “I’m tired, Dad.” His tone softened noticeably. “I’d like to stay home and sleep in my own bed for a change. Strange faces, strange beds and sometimes even stranger foods don’t excite me anymore.

  “I’ve bought a house that I haven’t taken the time to decorate or enjoy. I’ve never taken advantage of the development’s tennis court or swimming pool. I sat on my patio for the very first time yesterday afternoon. The first time in six months, Dad.

  “The cleaning service comes twice a week to dust and vacuum rooms I never go into. And if I didn’t enjoy cooking for myself I wouldn’t need a kitchen. I’ll turn thirty in another four months and I don’t feel as if I’ve been living. I’ve been working and existing.”

  “But you go out, Martin. You see women,” Samuel countered.

  “That’s just it. I’ve gone out with women, but there’s never been a special woman. That one woman I’d like to see more than two times before I’m flying off on some corporate junket.”

  There was a pause before Samuel spoke again. “What’s this conversation all about, Martin? Are you telling me that you want out of ColeDiz or that you’ve met someone?”

  He wanted to say that he had met someone. Someone he would have for a while before he had to let her go. Someone he could come home to at night.

  “I just want to curtail the traveling,” he said instead.

  Samuel registered the resignation in Martin’s voice, and he also recognized the stubborn trait that was so much a part of his own personality.

  “All right, son. I’ll get someone to fill in for you.”

  Leaning back on his chair, Martin closed his eyes and smiled. “Thanks. And, Dad. I hope you’re considering my suggestion to purchase a jet for ColeDiz. The money you’ll save chartering private flights will pay for a Lear or an Astra in less than two years.”

  “What else do you recommend, Wonder Boy?”

  Martin laughed. He had earned the sobriquet as an undergraduate student. A business course project gave each student a nonexistent stake of one thousand dollars to invest in the commodities market. Martin’s investment had turned a sizable profit for him while many of the other students lost every cent.

  Once word leaked out about his “sixth sense” in the market he was courted and pursued by investment firms he had never heard of or read about. He shied away from interviews, but granted one which set the stage for his image as a risk taker. He was quoted in his college newspaper saying, ‘I’m going to have a piece of everything I want. Some of it may not work out, but I’m still going to have a piece of it anyway.’

  “Communications, Dad.”

  Samuel snorted. “I’ll
leave that field for Ted Turner, Rupert Murdoch and that eyeglass-wearing boy who plays with computers…”

  “Bill Gates.”

  “Yeah—he’s the one.”

  The two men exchanged pleasantries then rang off. Even though his father disdained computers Martin was glad he had mentioned them. It was what he needed to communicate with Parris.

  * * *

  Martin knew the day had not gone well for Parris the moment he walked through his living room door and saw Ruby Johnson waiting for him.

  “What’s the matter, Mrs. Johnson?”

  “She won’t eat.”

  “She ate breakfast,” he reminded Ruby.

  “But she didn’t eat lunch or dinner.”

  His brow creased with worry. She had to eat or…He refused to think of the consequences.

  “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs. She’s been sitting out on the balcony.” Ruby didn’t get the chance to finish her statement as Martin raced by her and took the staircase to the upper level.

  Martin slowed his pace as he walked into the bedroom Parris had occupied since he brought her to his home. Staring across the room, he saw her sitting out on the balcony on a chaise, sleeping. As he moved closer he realized she wasn’t asleep but reading.

  Standing at the doors, he stared through the mesh of the screen and wondered why Parris Simmons had come into his life. Why now? Why when he was experiencing only what he now recognized as apathy and boredom?

  He had accepted challenges and had proven himself a winner. People in the world of business and finance recognized his face and many more knew his name. The mayor of West Palm Beach had given him a key to the city on behalf of the contributions ColeDiz had made to its citizens.

  He had been told that he had it all: the family name, his family’s fortune and the pick of any eligible woman for a wife.

  He had it all and he had nothing. The name, money, clothes and the fame were merely window dressing because under the facade was a man who would give it all up for love.

  It had taken Martin a long time to realize what had been missing in his life. He dated and respected women, offering them generous gifts for their birthdays or special holidays. But dating them had become a diversion. They filled up the empty blocks of time when he wasn’t working on a ColeDiz deal.