Just Desserts (23 page)

“Are you up to driving?” Mike asked. “If you aren’t, we could give you a ride down there.”

“No, that’s all right. You stay here and take care of Jake.”

“Who did this to you?” Mike inquired as he walked her to her car, behind the building. “Did you catch a look at him?”

“No, but I know one thing for a fact,” she said as she climbed into the Camaro and hooked her seat belt. “Whoever whacked me was solid, flesh and blood. ’Cause I’ll tell you right now: No ghost could hit that hard.”

As Savannah lay, neglected and in agony, in the tiny cubicle delineated by blue curtains that rode on overhead rails, she had a horrible thought that made her, if possible, even more miserable:
Damn! I don’t heave health insurance anymore. I’m going to have to pay for this!

She had been forced to fill out reams of stupid forms that asked more personal questions than the application for the police force. Next she had received a cursory look-see by a guy whom she was sure was the hospital custodian, wearing the facade of a white jacket and a stethoscope around his neck.

Then Mr. Clean had shoved her onto a gurney in this depressing cubicle and the staff of Community General Hospital of San Carmelita had promptly forgotten that she existed.

“Hey,” she called feebly as she heard a pair of rubber-soled feet squeak by, “hey, there’s somebody dying in here. Does anyone out there care?”

Apparently not. One dark corner of her scrambled brain reminded her that their lack of interest might have something to do with the code blue that was occurring two cubicles down, or the car-accident victim who was screaming at the top of his lungs and bleeding all over the place. Just on the other side of the sheet her neighbor sounded like a teenager who had swallowed too many baby aspirins and was being forced to puke her guts out. The flimsy curtain did nothing to screen the liquid, gagging sounds or the nauseating stench.

Ah, the romance, the ambience, the service ... and for this they would expect to be paid more than the price of a five-star hotel, including gourmet room service. By the time they were finished with X rays and assorted tests half her savings would be gone.

“Never get sick again,” she muttered to herself. “Never have an accident, never get shot, perforated, mutilated, or folded, and never, never get whacked on the head again. You’re a poor person now, and poor people can’t afford the luxury of getting hurt.”

Just when she had decided that she would grow old and die there on the gurney, with no one even aware of her presence until she started to stink, the blue curtain was pulled open a few inches and a decidedly masculine hand, bearing a perfect yellow rose, slipped inside.

For a microsecond she forgot the pain in her head. “Ryan?” she said, unable to believe this turn of events.

“May we come in?” a voice asked, the hand still offering the rose.

We? Who was we?
It didn’t matter; she nearly cried with relief. She wasn’t alone anymore. Someone she knew and liked was here. Someone cared.

“Sure,” she said; “please do.”

The curtain opened wider, and she saw that her visitor was, indeed, Ryan Stone in all his urbane glory. And he had brought John Gibson with him. They were both dressed in casual clothes; at least casual compared to Gibson’s chauffeur livery and the designer suit Ryan had worn at Chez Antoine. They looked as though they had both just stepped off the green of a Beverly Hills country club.

“We heard that a friend of ours was under the weather,” Ryan said as he walked to the gurney, handed her the rose, and placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “So we thought we should drop by to cheer you up.”

“But ... how did you ... who told you that I ... ?” Savannah might have been able to figure out the puzzle herself, except that half of her brain was frozen in panic that Ryan Stone was seeing her in such a disheveled condition.

“And these are also for you, ma’am,” Gibson said, his tone formal but his pale blue eyes friendly. He handed her a box of Godiva raspberry truffles—her very favorite confection in the world—and a small gold-and-black bottle of her favorite perfume, First by Van Cleef & Arpels.

This time she couldn’t hold back the tears. They spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks and into her ears, streaking whatever traces of mascara and liner she might still be wearing.

“All right,” she said, “enough of this. Tell me how you know everything about me. You’re just a little too resourceful for a bodyguard and a chauffeur. Who are you?”

Ryan smiled, reached down, and brushed the hair away from her face. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. “But this isn’t really the place, if you know what I mean.”

Curious as she was, she had to admit he had a point. If she could hear every gag and gargle from the girl getting her stomach pumped in the neighboring cubicle, this wasn’t exactly a high-security setting.

“Now, what have they done for you so far?” Ryan asked.

“One guy took my blood pressure and temperature, then stuck me in here.”

“How long ago?”

“Centuries.”

“Let me see where it hurts.”

She rolled onto her side and pointed to the back of her head.

“Good God! No wonder. He didn’t exactly hold back when he hit you.”

“When
who
hit me? Who’s ‘he’? Do you know who did this?”

“I have a pretty good hunch.”

“Who? Who?”

Ryan laughed and patted her hand. “You sound like an owl. I’ll tell you all about that, too, later. For right now, let’s just get you taken care of.” He turned to Gibson and nodded.

In an instant Gibson had pulled a tiny cellular phone from his pocket, along with a credit card—sized computer for storing personal information. He looked up a number, then dialed.

“Hello, John Gibson here. I’ll have a word with Dr. Weinberg.” A momentary pause. “Yes, Harold, how are you, old chap? Oh, not well at all, I’m afraid. A close friend of mine is lying here in your emergency ward, gravely injured, and your staff has been extremely negligent in attending to the dear girl.”

He listened briefly, then continued, “Ah, that’s wonderful, Harry. I’m so very pleased. See you soon; you
will
be down right away then? Splendid.” With a quick snap of the wrist he closed the phone and lowered the antenna. “Well, that’s settled nicely. Dr. Weinberg will see you personally, Ms. Reid, so you needn’t worry anymore.”

Savannah couldn’t believe her ears. Dr. Harold Weinberg! “Isn’t he the chief of staff here?” she asked, trying to recall the details of a story she had heard, recounting the idiosyncracies of the arrogant, tyrannical Dr. Weinberg.

“He is now,” Ryan said, “but Gibson knew him when he was a wet-behind-the-ears intern. It was during the war, wasn’t it, Gibson?”

“It was, indeed. But on to happier topics.” He nodded toward Savannah.

“Oh, yes,” Ryan said, picking up the cue. “As soon as they release you from this place, Gibson will drive you home in the Bentley and I’ll follow with your car.”

“And then you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

He laughed, picked up the rose, and tickled her chin with it. “Once we have you tucked into your bed, nice and comfy, if you have the energy, I’ll tell you all about it.”

If you crawled into bed with me, I’m sure I’d have plenty of energy,
she thought. But with Gibson standing there, the picture of dignity, and the almighty Dr. Harold Weinberg on the way to examine her, Savannah decided to put the thought on hold. At least until her head wasn’t throbbing and she was wearing something sexier than a damned hospital gown.

He was in her bedroom. Ryan Stone was sitting on the end of her satin chaise lounge chair, only a few feet from the bed where she lay, finally wearing a sexy silk robe and feeling like a woman. And they were alone.

Savannah was in heaven.

Or she would have been if the medication Dr. Weinberg had given her had kicked in yet.

“It’s bad, huh?” he asked, the picture of masculine magnificence and paternal concern, a combination that had always been her undoing.

“Yes, very bad. But answer some of my questions and I’ll feel much better.”

“So, fire away,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “Let the interrogation begin.”

“Who are you, really?” She wanted to know, but she was afraid she wouldn’t like the answer.

“First of all, my name really is Ryan Stone.”

“Let me guess; that’s the only thing you’ve told me that is true.”

He laughed, deepening his dimples. “Not at all. Everything I said about how beautiful and intelligent you are—that was all true, too.”

“Gee, thanks.” She could feel her cheeks blushing a hot pink ... the ones on her face, too. “But how about what you told me about you?”

“Such as?”

“That you run a bodyguard service.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I said. I don’t usually function as a guard; I generally conduct investigations. Jonathan Winston was a rare exception.”

“Why him?”

“Because he was a friend of a friend of Gibson’s. And, besides, his story intrigued me.”

“How so?”

“He first came to me, asking me to gather evidence that his wife was cheating on him. I told him I didn’t do matrimonial disputes—far too grim a way to make a living. Later he returned and begged me to be his guard for a few weeks. He said he had gone out and gotten the evidence himself of his wife’s infidelity. He had confronted her, and he was convinced she would try to kill him.”

Savannah mulled that one over for a moment. “What was so intriguing about his situation?”

“He was lying to me, plain and simple, and I wanted to know why.”

“Lying ... about his life being in danger?”

He shook his head. “No, I believed that part—he was obviously a nervous wreck. But I didn’t buy the bit about it being Beverly.”

“Why would he say it was?”

“He was furious that she was being unfaithful to him. He wanted to hurt her. I believe he figured that if he was going to get killed, he might as well get even with her after the fact by having her blamed for it.”

“That’s pretty nasty.”

“Hey, the fury of a man scorned. Of course he was having his own affair, but that was all right. Typically male, huh?”

“Afraid so.” She paused to mentally categorize and file this new information. “Then why did you leave him that night, if you were supposed to be guarding him?”

“He insisted. To be honest, I think he wanted to take care of some business and he didn’t want me around to witness it. I also think he was about to skip town ... travel arrangements being made, lots of over-the-phone banking, stuff like that going on. More than once he ended conversations abruptly when I walked into the room.”

“But how about his fear? If he really thought somebody was about to pop him, wouldn’t he have wanted you holding his hand every minute?”
I know I would,
she added silently.

“For some reason he seemed less afraid those last two days. Almost cocky. I think he was getting ready to make his own move and thought he had things under control.”

“Mmm ...” She tapped her fingernails on the table, thinking. “Who do you suppose the killer is, a professional?”

“I don’t know who he is, but I don’t believe he’s a pro. He’s too sloppy.”

“We haven’t been able to catch him yet. He must not be that sloppy.”

“So far he’s just been lucky. But if you and I put our heads together, we might be able to put a halt to his winning streak.”

“You mean like ... work together on this?” The very thought both thrilled and confused her. The possibility of spending that much time with him was intriguing. Deliciously intriguing. But the professional in her cautioned her to take one careful step at a time. For all of his charm, the fact was she didn’t know Ryan Stone from Adam. As far as she knew, he could have been the one to bop her over the head last night. Which reminded her....

“You said you might know who whacked me. I’d be very interested in having his name and address.”

He smirked. “I’m sure you would. But I’m afraid I can’t be that accommodating. Would you settle for a physical description?”

“Would I?” She sat up in bed, eyes blazing, then groaned and sank back against the pillow. “Yes, I would. I would love a physical description. Because if I ever get a hold of him, I’m going to whup the living snot out of him. I’m a civilian now, and I can do that sort of thing ... as long as I don’t get caught.”

Ryan laughed, then became somber. “Then try this on for size—tall and skinny, about six-three, one-hundred-seventy pounds, long blond hair, dirty, thin on top, goatee, heavy metal T-shirt—”

“About thirty-five, teeth missing in the front, wears a heavy chain for a belt?”

“Yeah; you know him?”

Adrenaline, like liquid fire, pumped through her veins.

“I know him. He’s that cracker who said he wanted to buy my Camaro. That son of a bitch! The next time I see him I’m going to knock the rest of his scraggly teeth so far down his throat, he’s going to have to chew with his asshole!”

“
W
here did I put that hot water bottle?” Savannah asked as she searched the miscellaneous drawers, closet, and cubbyholes in the guest room. Hoping that something either cold or hot—she had decided to try both—on the back of her head might reduce the swelling, as well as the infernal pain.

“Someday, I swear, I’m going to get organized. I’m also going to stop muttering to myself like an old lady.”

For the tenth time in the last few minutes she glanced over at the unmade bed, proof that Atlanta had at least spent the night there. They hadn’t touched base—not really—since their big fight. The temperature between them had been unseasonably chilly, their exchanges formal and overly polite.

To her knowledge Atlanta didn’t even know she had been hurt or had spent the night away from home. Savannah had called from the hospital to explain her absence at about ten o’clock this morning, but there had been no answer. She had left a message on the machine, but it had still been there when she had arrived at the house.