sounded like he might cough up his lungs at any second. The poor kid’s face was beet-red and he was crying. He’d get a little break, and then the coughing fit would be on him again.
In the chair next to the empty one beside him, an old man in a tweed cap pulled low over his brow, was nodding off. How he could sleep with the kid howling and hacking in his ear like that, was a mystery to Tommy. Maybe he was dead.
Turning a careful eye to the receptionist behind her kiosk, he waited his chance to bolt for the stairs. Mrs. Myers told him Heather was up on the third floor, room 314. He’d telephoned as soon as he heard what happened, grateful it wasn’t Mr. Myers who answered the phone. He was watching TV when he heard it on the news. They didn’t release Heather’s name, but there was only one store in Harding that was open all night.
Why? Why did this happen to her? She’d been working so hard, saving every penny she could earn to go to one of those famous acting schools, maybe even Julliard.
Would she blame him? Hate him for not being there for her? God knew he hated himself. Why hadn’t he sensed that she was in trouble, that she needed him?
The receptionist was on the phone, but she was keeping a steely eye on her flock, forcing him to wait her out. A big woman, she looked like she could pick him up by the ear if she took a mind to, and toss him out of here.
A young guy was limping in his direction, grimacing with pain. He eased himself down into the empty chair between Tommy and the old man. He was a muscular type about his own age, hair tied back in a skimpy ponytail. Tommy glanced down at the dirty wad of blood-soaked cloth he was pressing against his outer thigh. He acknowledged Tommy with a slight nod, his heel tapping a nervous staccato on the floor. A wave of sourness rose off him, a brew of sweat and pain.
We’re like people trapped in a broken down bus in the middle of nowhere, Tommy thought, waiting for someone to come and get it going again.
The receptionist paged a Doctor Whalen on the intercom. Her voice was bored and whiny, not at all how he’d expected it to sound. The kid had started coughing again, wide blue eyes panicky. The old man woke with a jerk and looked around, as if surprised at finding himself in this place, with these strangers. The guy beside him let out a grunt of pain.
Up on the third floor, the elevator stopped and a man stepped off. He wore a doctor’s white coat, wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a patient’s chart in his hand. From his confident stride and easy manner, no one would have guessed he did not belong here, or that he was not a doctor.
Except for the girl in room 314.
The dragon-lady finally broke down and brought the kid a glass of water. She’d barely turned her back and Tommy was on his feet heading for the stairs. He forced himself to walk casually, bracing himself for that nasal voice behind him, commanding him to “stopstop now!” It took all he had not to break into a run.
But there was no command for him to stop, no sound of urgent feet tromping behind him. Home free. He was on the other side of the door now, and it was swinging closed behind him. He took the metal stairs two at a time, landing on each step as softly as possible. In just minutes he would be with Heather. He would help her through this. He loved her.
Oh, God, Heather, I’m so sorry.
Approaching the nurses’ station, the bespectacled man in the white coat spoke pleasantly to the nurse on duty. It mildly amused him when she snapped shut the book she was reading, to see her country-girl cheeks turn nearly as red as the lettering on the book’s dust-jacket that spelled out Summer’s Passion.
She glanced at the chart in his hand. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said, her greeting coming out high and timid.
“Morning, nurse. Quiet night?”
“Yes, doctor. Pretty quiet.”
He
In the chair next to the empty one beside him, an old man in a tweed cap pulled low over his brow, was nodding off. How he could sleep with the kid howling and hacking in his ear like that, was a mystery to Tommy. Maybe he was dead.
Turning a careful eye to the receptionist behind her kiosk, he waited his chance to bolt for the stairs. Mrs. Myers told him Heather was up on the third floor, room 314. He’d telephoned as soon as he heard what happened, grateful it wasn’t Mr. Myers who answered the phone. He was watching TV when he heard it on the news. They didn’t release Heather’s name, but there was only one store in Harding that was open all night.
Why? Why did this happen to her? She’d been working so hard, saving every penny she could earn to go to one of those famous acting schools, maybe even Julliard.
Would she blame him? Hate him for not being there for her? God knew he hated himself. Why hadn’t he sensed that she was in trouble, that she needed him?
The receptionist was on the phone, but she was keeping a steely eye on her flock, forcing him to wait her out. A big woman, she looked like she could pick him up by the ear if she took a mind to, and toss him out of here.
A young guy was limping in his direction, grimacing with pain. He eased himself down into the empty chair between Tommy and the old man. He was a muscular type about his own age, hair tied back in a skimpy ponytail. Tommy glanced down at the dirty wad of blood-soaked cloth he was pressing against his outer thigh. He acknowledged Tommy with a slight nod, his heel tapping a nervous staccato on the floor. A wave of sourness rose off him, a brew of sweat and pain.
We’re like people trapped in a broken down bus in the middle of nowhere, Tommy thought, waiting for someone to come and get it going again.
The receptionist paged a Doctor Whalen on the intercom. Her voice was bored and whiny, not at all how he’d expected it to sound. The kid had started coughing again, wide blue eyes panicky. The old man woke with a jerk and looked around, as if surprised at finding himself in this place, with these strangers. The guy beside him let out a grunt of pain.
Up on the third floor, the elevator stopped and a man stepped off. He wore a doctor’s white coat, wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a patient’s chart in his hand. From his confident stride and easy manner, no one would have guessed he did not belong here, or that he was not a doctor.
Except for the girl in room 314.
The dragon-lady finally broke down and brought the kid a glass of water. She’d barely turned her back and Tommy was on his feet heading for the stairs. He forced himself to walk casually, bracing himself for that nasal voice behind him, commanding him to “stopstop now!” It took all he had not to break into a run.
But there was no command for him to stop, no sound of urgent feet tromping behind him. Home free. He was on the other side of the door now, and it was swinging closed behind him. He took the metal stairs two at a time, landing on each step as softly as possible. In just minutes he would be with Heather. He would help her through this. He loved her.
Oh, God, Heather, I’m so sorry.
Approaching the nurses’ station, the bespectacled man in the white coat spoke pleasantly to the nurse on duty. It mildly amused him when she snapped shut the book she was reading, to see her country-girl cheeks turn nearly as red as the lettering on the book’s dust-jacket that spelled out Summer’s Passion.
She glanced at the chart in his hand. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said, her greeting coming out high and timid.
“Morning, nurse. Quiet night?”
“Yes, doctor. Pretty quiet.”
He
Similar Books
![Jo Beverley - [Rogue ]](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/598544/thumbs/152x264/jo-beverley-rogue.jpg)
