His Golden Heart (7 page)

“My patient’s an athlete,” Shayna said quickly, aborting the stroll down memory lane. “He’s extremely high profile and temperamental as all hell.”

“Reminds me of the way you used to be,” Kara muttered.

“I wasn’t,” Shayna protested, filling her mother in on Beau’s antics.

“He sounds full of himself. A real egotist,” Kara said. “You’d have to have an abundance of patience to deal with that nonsense.”

“But it’s a front. A facade to hide his pain.”

“Whatever. Sounds to me like you’re more involved than you need to be.” Kara’s voice was heavy with skepticism. “Do you like him?”

Did she like Beau? Was she more involved than she needed to be? Nah. She cared for her patients. Challenged them to give her their best. Beau was attractive but she had no desire to have a romantic involvement with a patient. Especially a patient as prickly and vulnerable as the skier could be.

“If Reggie gets to be too much,” Kara said, changing the topic, “send him back to us after the hearing, provided he gets off free.” Her voice caught. “We’d take him now, but he’s not supposed to leave the state. God, Shayna, what will we do if they lock him up?”

“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” Shayna said firmly.

Colin Johnson, the attorney they’d picked, had come highly recommended. Shayna hoped Reggie had told him the truth about what went on that night. She made a mental note to see Colin and get an update. She’d find out if he’d come up with a witness that might help their side. As it was, he was costing them a bundle. But difficult as Reggie was, she wasn’t a quitter. Never had been. Giving up on Reggie would mean admitting defeat. She didn’t plan on sending him home.

“You and Dad are still coming for the trial, right?” Shayna asked.

“Yes. We won’t miss it.”

“I’ll send you airplane tickets.”

“No need to. Your dad’s got that covered.”

“I want to. That’s the least I can do.”

“Shayna! Shayna! Come up here.” Reggie’s shouts interrupted, putting her instantly on alert.

“Got to go, Mom,” Shayna said. “I love you.”

She hung up and took off, her heart racing. “What’s wrong, Reggie?” She called, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Edward Anderson’s on TV. Just look at that mean son of a bitch.”

Shayna entered her brother’s room to see Edward Anderson’s face plastered across the TV screen. He looked huge and intimidating, definitely not someone you wanted to mess with. Shayna’s heart sank.

Could Colin Johnson take this fierce looking man on?

Chapter Six

Edward Anderson spoke into the microphone the reporter held under his nose.

“There’s a whole new breed of thug out there. Millennials who come in every color, class, shape, and size. They’re unconscionable and downright evil. Their primary focus is themselves.”

“Don’t you have millennials, Mr. Anderson?” the television reporter asked.

“Three of them. And they’re all law-abiding citizens. Victoria and I raised them right”

“All of them?”

There was a pause before Anderson smoothly interjected, “All of them. My youngest went through the usual growing pains, but he turned out all right. Made a name for himself.”

“Mr. Anderson, are you’re saying this seventeen-year old kid that beat up your client should be tried as an adult?”

“What do you think? People of Denver, what do you think?”

The smooth operator that he was, Edward Anderson spread both arms wide. He peered over half-moon glasses at the television audience. Shayna’s heart sank to her stomach. In a few weeks Reggie and his attorney were about to come up against this man. This tough adversary, from the old school, rigid and unbending. At least he didn’t appear to be a bigot. He’d admitted that the criminal element encompassed all colors and classes. Even so, Ed’s physical appearance intimidated. He was a huge, ferocious-looking man with a ruddy complexion, and a balding dome for a head. He’d scowled his way through the interview, peering over those half-moon glasses. His speech patterns shouted upper crust White Bread.

Reggie’s eyes were fixated on the screen. Shayna sensed, though he would never admit it, he was scared. His jaw was clamped so tight she feared he would crush his molars. She ached for him and, though he was innocent, hoped that this was a lesson he would never forget. Reggie would face serious jail time if he was convicted. He’d done some pretty stupid things in the past but she couldn’t imagine him hurting another human being.

Shayna had read up on the crime. The victim had been found tied to a chair, bludgeoned and bloody, her house ransacked and valuables taken. When the cops were called, Reggie and a carload of his buddies were picked up on a surrounding block. During a lineup the woman had picked out Reggie and the driver. Both boys had sworn up and down that they’d never even been on her block. They’d stuck to their story relentlessly and even though they had an alibi, they’d been taken in and arraigned. Would that have happened if they weren’t black?

The DaCostas had paid big bucks to bail Reggie out and get him the kind of lawyer he needed. They’d been forced to take out a second mortgage on their home. Even now, Shayna couldn’t control the anger and outrage that surfaced when she thought of the injustice of it all. Why were her folks forced to come up with money they didn’t have? Reggie had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and for that he had suffered.

Shayna’s attention returned to the television screen. Edward Anderson was no longer on camera but the reporter continued to pontificate.

“There you have it, folks. Our very own Edward Anderson, encouraging us to rid our Denver streets of crime. To take a hard line and put the riffraff that continues to move to Denver behind bars.”

Shayna viewed that comment as a direct dig against Reggie. What had happened to objective reporting?

“Time to turn in,” she said to her brother. “You need to be up at six.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grumbled.

“I want you on that bus,” Shayna admonished, closing the door firmly behind her.

* * *

“I got a call from the Sports Authority’s attorneys,” David Mandel, Beau’s agent, said, flexing and unflexing his hands, a sure sign he was agitated.

Beau focused his attention on the TV’s remote, continuing to channel-surf, listening with one ear, wishing the dull pain in his gut would go away. “Yeah?”

“They’re angling to get out of their contract. They’re claiming that your, uh…incapacitation held up the film shoot and print ads they had hoped to run.”

“That’s bull. We weren’t supposed to do anything with them until the fall.”

“You and I know that”

“What’s our attorney say?”

Beau’s father had made him retain a sports and entertainment attorney, familiar with exactly this sort of thing. She was supposedly one of the best.

“Laura’s fighting with them, arguing that they’ve acted prematurely. She’s told them your prognosis is good, and you could make a full recovery.”

Beau settled on a channel and lied back on his bed, trying to get comfortable. “Even I don’t know that.”

“You’ve given up?” David said, shaking his head. “Where’s that fighting spirit gone? You’re content to lie back or sit in that stinking wheelchair all day.” He pointed to the empty chair. “For Christ’s sake, man, don’t give in to this thing. You’ll walk again, maybe even ski.”

How could he not give in when he felt so hopeless? When even wiggling his big toe was an effort. He wouldn’t admit that he was scared to death, that the tingling in his toes made him wonder what else was wrong. He’d been afraid to ask the doctor what that meant. He wasn’t up to more bad news.

“You and my physical therapist are a pair,” Beau joked. “You’re starting to sound the same.”

“Maybe we both believe in you. Your energies should be focused on finding out the real reason you fell. Everyone thinks the whole incident smells, Beau. That gold medal should have been yours. Why are you willing to let whoever did this to you get away scot-free?”

Beau didn’t want to think about that right now.

“It’s all speculation,” he said. “Why would someone do this to me?”

“Because they’re jealous. Plain old envious.”

“You’re speculating.”

“Didn’t one of the guys claim he saw someone nosing around your equipment hours before the race?”

“I don’t remember. How come he hasn’t come forward?” Beau raised his eyebrows, skeptically.

“He might have been uncomfortable. Nervous about saying anything.”

“Right”

Immaculata chose that moment to stick her blond head through the doorway and say, “You’ve got physical therapy in exactly ten minutes, Beau-Beau. Do you need me to take you down?”

“No, I don’t need you to take me down. I’m perfectly capable.”

Immaculata’s eyebrows rose to the ceiling. Her smile was miles wide. “Good. It’s what I like to hear. If you change your mind, buzz me.”

“Who’s that?” David asked when she’d left. “I like her style. Is she single or married?”

“One of the nurses, and I don’t know whether she’s available or not.” Beau didn’t have a clue, nor had he thought to ask.

He’d been totally self-absorbed, focused solely on his problems. So focused in fact, that he’d never viewed Mary Jane Coppola as a person. She’d become a necessary evil, someone to endure. While she’d grown on him, and he’d come to accept the fact she took care of him, he still viewed her as his keeper.

“I’m going to shove off,” David said. “Think about what we talked about and do a little investigating for me. Find out if that nurse is available.”

“Right”

After David had left, Beau heaved himself into his wheelchair. He didn’t want to think about the implications if what his agent said was true. How could anyone be that vindictive, that evil? It was only a competition.

Yeah, a competition with winner-take-all.

He had to admit that it was odd that a binding would be defective. It was even stranger that his skis were nowhere to be found. He’d repeatedly given himself a verbal flogging for not checking and double-checking his equipment and making sure they were sound. No time to think about that now. In a matter of minutes he would see Shayna again. He’d made it halfway through
Turning Hurts Into Halos
. The book had an interesting premise but he wasn’t fully convinced that a positive outlook had anything to do with speedier healing, or being able to walk again. But he wanted to discuss the book with Shayna, hear her perspective on things.

Beau wheeled himself to the elevator, actually managing to nod in the direction of the nurses’ station. Ignoring the muffled whispers behind him, he continued to the bank of elevators. His dexterity had improved and he was more in control of his chair, he no longer wobbled all over the place. Practice made perfect, he supposed.

When Beau entered her room, Shayna was totally absorbed in whatever she was reading, her face obscured by a newspaper. He sat silently, observing her, watching those slender, perfectly shaped legs in black hose bounce to an unheard rhythm. The woman was hotter than crackling firewood. He hesitated. Should he call out to her and disturb her reading?

Shayna must have sensed he’d come in. She lowered the newspaper and tried to quickly put it away. She wasn’t quick enough. He’d already seen the photo on the front page. Why didn’t it surprise him?

“Mind if I look at that?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“If you’d like.” She made no attempt to turn it over. He could tell she was uncomfortable being caught. Maybe she suspected he’d seen the photo and her discomfort stemmed from wanting to protect him. Or maybe she was simply embarrassed for having been caught reading junk.

“The paper,” Beau insisted, continuing to hold his hand out and scooting closer.

“Here.” There was a haughty tilt to her head as she turned the newspaper over. Beau took his time shaking it out, smoothing out the creases. He stared at the photograph on the front page of the Living & Arts section and couldn’t resist a smirk.

“This didn’t take long.”

“Oh, Beau, don’t do that to yourself. Would you like something to drink? Water?”

“No, thanks. I’m a big boy.”

“Would it help you to talk?”

He dismissed her with a nod of his head, and turned back to the newspaper, his eyes focusing on the caption again. “Not really.”

PARALYZED SKIER DUMPED FOR BELLISSIMA HEIR.

Such bull.

Splashed across the front page was an oversize photograph of Chandra looking exceedingly chic in a bright red catsuit. A pair of dark glasses were perched on the end of her nose. Her wild mane of hair had been carefully spritzed and tousled. She was being helped from a limousine by a dark-skinned man who could easily have been a cover model himself. The man’s suit was impeccably cut. Armani, Beau would guess. A tie completed the high-powered look. He too wore sunglasses. Beau’s photograph, juxtaposed next to theirs, wasn’t exactly flattering. It was an aerial view of him seated in his wheelchair, taken the day he’d been sitting on the patio waiting for Shayna.

“Beau, are you sure you don’t want to talk?” Shayna asked, touching his shoulder gently.