by Mary Hawkins
A few minutes later, they swung into the real-estate office's small car park.
'That's Dan's car,' she said sharply. 'I was told he was away.'
Chris was at her door helping her out by the time she had managed to release the seatbelt.
'Thank you,' she said stiffly without looking at him, and started towards the entrance.
Karen was sitting at her desk. When she glanced up, she sprang to her feet. A mixture of emotions from astonishment to something resembling relief crossed her face.
'Miss Macallister!'
'Where is he?'
Karen's face went red. She glanced quickly towards Dan's office. 'I'm so sorry,' she murmured. 'He said to tell you he's not in if you call.'
'But I'm not calling, I'm here,' Jean said gently, and limped towards the inner door.
'And I'm glad,' she heard Karen say in a much firmer voice as Jean reached for the doorknob without knocking.
She heard Alicia's voice raised in anger as she flung open the door. By the anger on both faces that swung towards her she knew that all was far from well in the Wallace household.
'What happened to George?' she hurled at them as she advanced into the room.
Two red spots on her cheeks under Alicia's heavy make-up faded. She gasped, and then colour flooded her face as she turned on Dan in a fury.
'You see what you've done? I told you to stay at the house!'
'Shut up, Al!' snarled Dan. He straightened up and plastered a smile on his face as he advanced towards Jean, his hand outstretched.
The false beam of welcome slipped and he dropped his hand as she said loudly, enunciating each word very clearly as though speaking to someone who was either deaf or stupid, 'What has happened to George?'
'Now, now, Jean. Father's condition is quite satisfactory.' He smoothed the rejected hand through his hair.
'A bit of a set-back that's all. How did you ‑?'
'When did he go to hospital?'
Dan and Alicia exchanged quick glances.
'Er . . . last week,' Alicia muttered sullenly.
Jean held on to her temper with an effort.
'Why did you lie to me, and tell me everything was fine, Alicia?'
Alicia opened her mouth, but Dan said smoothly, 'She didn't want you to cut short your holiday, of course. As you have now,' he reproached sadly. 'You've had an over-protective attitude towards Father ever since ‑'
'Don't call him that! He's not your father! And you've certainly never acted like a son!' Jean spat at him.
An ugly expression filled Dan's face before he turned away quickly. For the fraction of a second Jean felt regret, until Alicia's honeyed tones brought her head up again.
'But then, you aren't even as closely related as a stepson, are you, Jean?'
The malice in the pale blue-eyes almost made Jean forget her promise to George, but she caught herself in time before she blurted out what she had been tempted to many times before.
'That's right, Jean. And I think it's about time you remembered that I am his next of kin.' The veneer of amiability was completely gone from Dan's hard voice.
'Perhaps that would be easier when you remember,' she said coldly. 'You still haven't told me what happened.'
She went still at the look Alicia and Dan exchanged this time.
'He wouldn't do anything,' Alicia began with a rush. 'It all became just so difficult . He wouldn't eat the food I prepared. He wouldn't even take his . . . his tablets. He even threw them at me. And I just couldn't stand the way he refused to talk.' Her voice went higher. 'Hour after hour, he just sat there in front of the television, nodding or shaking his head. In the end I couldn't even get him out of the bed into the wheelchair, and he . . . he . . . fell!'
'Fell!'
Alicia shrank from the expression on Jean's face.
'Oh, they said he didn't break anything, just bruises and a bit of skin off,' Dan said rapidly. 'But they said they'd better keep him in for a while. Said something about finding out why he fell.'
'Four days!' Jean said through gritted teeth. 'It only took four days for you to . . . to . . .'
Her voice cracked and she turned on her heel, refusing to Jet them see her break down. Then she paused, remembering she had come here to ask Karen for a loan of some cash so that she would not have to ask Chris Hansen. But there was no way she would ever ask this pair for anything ever again, and she continued on her way, hoping Karen might still be able to help her.
But Karen was leaning close to the tall man looming over her desk, murmuring to him. Even in the crumpled black shirt and ragged shorts he was an impressive figure as he straightened.
She paused. 'I thought you'd be gone.' She knew he must have heard the relief in her voice as he advanced towards her.
'I've just been talking to this fine young woman for a few very profitable moments,' he said briefly. 'Are you ready to go to the hospital now?' He looked past her, and by the change on his face she knew Dan and Alicia must have followed her.
Jean gave up all idea of talking to Karen and nodded. She was even grateful for the supporting hand at her elbow as he escorted her forward, turning his back on the pair behind them. She glanced up at him and caught him giving Karen a gleaming smile, which she returned in full measure.
'Thank you,' she heard him murmur as they passed the desk.
As the heavy glass doors swung shut, she heard Dan begin to say something in a very loud, angry voice to his secretary. She paused.
'I hope poor Karen won't lose her job,' she began unhappily.
Chris urged her forward. 'From what she said, I don't think she'll mind in the least,' he said crisply.
She looked at him curiously as he steered the car out into the traffic again. She reminded herself that he was after all a doctor who no doubt had plenty of practice charming people with a perfected bedside manner. But he certainly must have oozed charm to have Karen confiding in him after such a brief period.
Pity none of it's been directed at me, she found herself thinking a little wistfully. It had been the first time she had seen the hint of a smile on his face, and seen some evidence of the warm-hearted man she thought she had heard yesterday on the phone.
But then, she thought mournfully, he didn't think Karen was self-seeking and hard-hearted—or a nymphomaniac who lost her temper and socked men in the face with her fist!
CHAPTER THREE
There was silence in the car until they reached the relatively small private hospital.
As he turned the engine off, Chris said tersely, 'I'd prefer to wait in the car if you can manage. As long as you aren't too long.'
'That . . . that depends on what I . . . find.' Jean swallowed, suddenly feeling very frightened.
Chris turned his head sharply towards her. He dragged one hand through his crisp wavy hair and she heard the reluctance in his voice as he said, 'Look, I can come in if you need me, but . . .' He gestured to his clothes, and his face relaxed slightly as he added, 'And I'm afraid my head also feels a little fragile.'
She studied his face with a worried frown. 'Oh, dear, I ‑' She swallowed. 'No, no, don't come in,' she said quickly. 'I'll be fine.'
But she wasn't. Not when a nurse had directed her to George's room and she couldn't wake him up.
At first she had thought she would let him sleep. She had automatically pulled up a chair to his left side which had not been affected by the stroke. Then, after sitting quietly for several minutes watching his pale, drawn face, there had been a loud clatter just outside his room. He hadn't stirred—George, who was such a light sleeper she had never been able to sneak into the house late without waking him up!
She reached out to touch him. 'George, darling, it's me. Wake up, love.'
She shook him harder. He stirred a little but that was the only response. Then she was flying down the corridor to the nurse's desk.
'Please,' she gasped to the uniformed figure who rose swiftly, 'I can't wake him up. What's wrong with him?'
'It's Mr Macallister's visitor, Sister Howard,' the nurse who had given her directions to his room said quickly.
'Oh.' The alarm in the sister's eyes was replaced with a slight smile. 'I'm afraid he is fairly heavily sedated, and it's quite normal for him to be asleep at this time of the day.'
'Sedated!' Rather than being calmed, Jean's alarm grew. 'I was told he was all right.' She saw a look exchanged between the two women. She strove for a measure of self-control, and then said a little more steadily, 'Could you please tell me what's been happening with him? I've been away and I've only just found out he was admitted to hospital ten days ago.'
A very cool, professional look came over the sister's face.
'Are you a relative of Mr Macallister's?'
'Yes, he's my . . . my uncle. I look after him. I'm Jean Macallister.'
A flash of anger gleamed briefly in the woman's eyes, before she bent her head and reached for a file. She examined it for a moment, and when she looked up her expression seemed to be carefully blank. Professional.
'Mr Macallister's next of kin is down as his stepson, Mr Dan Wallace. I'm afraid if you require any information about his diagnosis or treatment you will have to apply to him. I'm not at liberty to give that information out to anyone.'
Jean froze. George had been in Sydney at a business conference when he'd suffered his stroke. His friends had listed her as his next of kin. Dan had never been interested enough even to find out or query it.
'But I've looked after him since his stroke last year,' she said through dry lips. Her headache was suddenly worse.
'Yes, so I believe.' The flash of anger was back, disturbing the cool professionalism. The words were barked out, and then the sister replaced the file as she said coldly, 'If you will excuse me, I'm afraid I am too busy to talk to you now.'
Her back was turned firmly to Jean. The other nurse was too young to control her features and was glaring at Jean with obvious contempt.
'Nurse!' The sister's voice was sharp. 'I believe you have work still to do in Mr Watts's room.'
Jean reluctantly went slowly back to George, wondering why on earth they had both been so unfriendly. No, that was not the right word. They had been downright hostile. Surely the staff had been told she was on holiday and why she had not been to see their patient?
George still hadn't stirred. She almost collapsed in the chair next to his bed and picked up his limp hand. It reminded her so vividly of the many nightmarish hours she had sat by herself in that hospital in Sydney waiting and praying for him to regain consciousness. She had been so frightened he would never open his eyes again.
He had lost weight in only two weeks, and looked so frail and vulnerable that tears began to trickle slowly down her face. The untidy, thick crop of snowy white hair badly needed a trim. It was so difficult to persuade him to go to the barber that she had even threatened in the past to chop at it herself. She had told him firmly that a visit was due as soon as she came back from holiday, and he had just twinkled at her.
It had been that thick, wavy hair that had first impressed her about George. It had not been as white ten years ago, she thought with a sharp pang. His light brown hair had been so much like her own, except for the streaks of grey, when he had suddenly appeared beside her hospital bed in a strange country, and smiled gently at her frightened, belligerent face.
She could still hear him clear his throat, and see his eyes bright with tears as he had drawled in a wonderfully familiar Australian accent, 'Hello, sweetheart, I'm your uncle George, but please call me George.'
People from the police to the hospital staff had been wonderfully kind to her after she had regained consciousness in that London hospital to find that her parents had been killed in the car accident. But she had been just fourteen, and realising she did not know a soul in a strange country had filled her with a deep, helpless feeling of panic until the tall man in his late fifties had flown across the world and walked into the ward. That anyone could care so much about her, Jean Macallister, to go to so much trouble, come all that way, had filled her with at first suspicion and disbelief, and then unadorned adoration.
She had only been able to remember her father mentioning his eldest brother a couple of times, and had never found out what had caused the rift between them so that she had never met him. George had simply taken her into his strong arms and his home from that first day, and she had returned his love with all the affection that had lain in her starved heart.
George was lying on his side facing her. She lost track of how long she sat there watching him, loving him . . . remembering. She lifted his flaccid hand gently in both of hers and carried it to her wet cheek. He stirred slightly, and then relaxed again.
'Oh, George, dear,' she whispered. 'If you were able to fight that whole hospital staff in London, and cut through the red tape as you did to bring me back home, I'll get you out of this. I'll look after you again.'
There was the sound of heavy footsteps in the corridor, followed by the slightly agitated voice of the sister.
'Excuse me, sir, I really don't think . . .'
The door opened and a grim-faced Chris Hansen appeared, and paused as she raised her tear-streaked, anguished face.
His expression darkened a little, but he said firmly, 'I'm afraid if you need a lift home I can't wait around any longer.'
He advanced into the room, and stared down at the still figure on the bed. The flustered sister had followed him. Jean saw the look of disgust the middle-aged woman was giving the beard stubble, the dirty, frayed cut-off shorts and the filthy old trainers Chris was wearing without socks. It was very obvious he had been wearing them while mowing the lawn.
Chris reached out to feel the pulse in the wrist Jean had placed carefully back on the bed. Suddenly Jean remembered he was a doctor, and a flicker of hope lit in her.
'Is this man unconscious, Sister?' he snapped.
The sister drew herself up, but before she could speak Jean said harshly, 'No, they've sedated him so heavily I can't rouse him.'
She heard Chris draw in his breath sharply. His voice was at its most autocratic as he demanded, 'Is that absolutely necessary, Sister?'
'Really, sir! I don't think that is any of your ‑'
'My name is Chris Hansen, Sister . . .' he glanced at her name badge '. . . Sister Howard.'
Jean looked at him sharply as the steely inflexion in his voice registered, and then in astonishment as the sister gasped, and gaped at him. Sister's face flushed crimson, and then she drew herself up, before she hesitantly answered him as though still doubtful about what she should say.
'Well, I . . . that is . . . apparently he was very aggressive . . . and Dr ‑'
'George aggressive?' Jean was on her feet. 'George is the most loving, kind man. What on earth did you do to him to make him aggressive?'
'Jean, why don't you stay here for a bit longer, and I'll have a word with Sister?'
Jean was not only frightened, she could feel the rage building up in her again as she glared at him, and then at the sister again.
Then Chris smiled at her and said very gently, 'Please, Jean.' Before she could move, he turned towards the door. 'After you, Sister.'
He ushered the still flustered, red-faced woman out of the room while Jean stared after them. Despite the turmoil in her mind, some deep part of her registered that his smile had utterly transformed his face. She thought there might have been even a slight hint of an indentation in that cheek under the black stubble. His eyes had soothed her with their care and warmth.
She sank on to the chair again, her gaze returning to George. George aggressive? He had certainly never suffered fools very well, always been decisive in his work. But not even his severest critics would ever have called him aggressive. Even during the inevitable times of sheer frustration and anger over his disabilities the last few months, he had never shown the least sign of any aggression that had made it difficult for his carers. What had they been trying to do that he'd objected to so str
ongly?
He moved restlessly, but although she tried shaking him gently the only response was for him briefly to open and then close his eyes and lie still again.
Jean took a deep breath, and glanced at her watch. Although there was still light filtering through the window it was much later than she had thought. Her head pounded, and she knew she was too exhausted to stay any longer. She remembered that Chris had said his head was aching also. Reluctantly she stood up and leaned over to kiss the pale cheek before walking a little unsteadily out of the room.
She could see Chris's long bare legs at the nurses' station as he studied a chart. He looked up and watched her for a moment as she limped towards him, said something to the sister beside him, handed back the chart and went to meet her.
Without a word, he slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned against him thankfully until they reached his car. He still didn't say a word as he handled the powerful car skilfully in the heavy rush-hour traffic. It was bliss to relax, and not have to talk. She tried to think about George and Dan, but the waves of exhaustion overpowered her at last and she slept.
When she woke, she sat up as she realised she was not in her own bed. The strange room was only lit by a faint sliver of light coming through the slightly open door.
She searched for a bedside light. Its soft light showed she was in Mrs Bensted's bedroom. A twinge of pain in her ankle reminded her immediately of all that had happened. She felt stiff and sore. Her eyes were stinging, and, as she went to rub them, she realised the knuckles on her hand were also stiff and slightly swollen. She was still wearing her blouse, but her jeans had been removed.
By whom?
Warmth flooded her at the thought of Chris's hands sliding over her, undoing the button and zip at the waist of the tight jeans, easing them down over her hips and . . .
The underwear she had pulled on that morning had been a new matching set of black lace bra and see-through bikini briefs that left very little to the imagination. The heat increased as she thought of him touching Her, looking at her.
