Authors: Donna Richards
In a Heartbeat
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
512 Forest Lake Drive
Warner Robins, Georgia 31093
In a Heartbeat
Copyright © 2007 by Donna Richards
ISBN: 1-59998-493-3
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: March 2007
In a Heartbeat
Donna Richards
As a young child, I often fell asleep to the sound of my mother typing my father’s manuscript on an old black manual typewriter. His book on printing presses is in the Library of Congress today.
This book is dedicated to my father who didn’t live long enough to see his little girl become a published author, but who knows nonetheless.
To my husband, whose emotional support made this possible, and to Chris Stahurski whose gentle critiques helped mold me into a writer.
In a Heartbeat
“Perfect.”
He slipped his hand over his freshly shaved chin. Smooth. Pure.
Clean. Not a scar, not a nick. Tilting his head for a better view, he noted the reflection of a plastic bag stuffed with a blood-soaked blouse, lacy panties slit to ribbons, and a denim mini-skirt tucked away in the corner. A smile tugged at his lips. He’d always been good with a razor.
Behind him, a television in the cheap motel room blasted some early morning talk show. The loud volume masked the sound of his movements through the thin motel walls. No one would know he was gone until housekeeping checked the room. By then he’d have crossed the state line, long before anyone discovered a naked woman with her throat slit, slowly decomposing in the middle of a soybean field. Perfect.
He carefully dressed, then checked the room to make certain nothing incriminating remained behind. His hand lingered on the doorknob when the word “transplant” stopped his egress and pulled his attention to the television.
“Dr. Lewis, are you suggesting that memories are embedded in our vital organs?” A woman in a beige suit looked skeptical. “Like words on paper?”
“Well, I’m not sure about your analogy, but yes. There are documented cases.” A young man in a white lab coat stiffened in his chair, adjusting his glasses.
“Can you give us some examples?”
“I know personally of one man who, after receiving a new heart, began dreaming of a young woman named Martha.”
“Surely, there’s nothing unusual about a man dreaming about a woman.” The woman eased back in her chair, chuckling at her own wit.
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Donna Richards
“Yes, but this man didn’t know any woman named Martha.” The doctor leaned forward, a smile played about the outer corners of his mouth. “Martha, you see, was the fiancée of the heart donor. The recipient had no knowledge of the donor. The memories came from his new heart.”
“But that’s incredible,” the woman said, clearly astonished. “Does that happen all the time?”
“No,” sniffed the doctor. “But it happens enough to defy coincidence.”
“And does this happen with other organs?”
The doctor’s response was lost in the screaming of his brain. Other organs were of no concern. A cold fury built in his chest. The implication that a heart, a donated heart from a dead lifeless body, could remember the man responsible for its demise chased all other thoughts from his mind.
“Miranda, you, bitch!” With a swing of his arm, he threw the plastic bag of clothes across the room, toppling a lamp and a glass of water.
“How can you do this to me?” he ranted. “Do you have any idea how long I planned your murder? Down to the most minuscule detail.” He pressed his thumb and forefinger together as if lecturing her ghost. “It was unparalleled. Perfect.”
He paced the small room, stabbing his fingers through his hair. “You should have died faster. No one would want your dead cold heart then.
You’d be dead and buried and that would be that.” He stopped in front of the long mirror of the bureau and screamed at his reflection. “You should have died faster!”
He sunk onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. Rocking slowly back and forth, he whispered to himself, calming the violent shaking in his body, quieting the laughter he heard ringing in his ears.
“It’s okay. Ssh… She won’t talk from the grave. I can fix it. I’ll fix everything.” The rocking ceased, and he glanced up at the mirror. “I’ll fix it. Just like always.”
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In a Heartbeat
“Seriously, it’s not a problem.” Angela raised her voice for the car phone as she jammed a few stray tendrils up under her gray chauffeur’s cap. She guided her brother’s sleek white limousine under the portico of the downtown Hyatt. “I’m already here.”
“I really appreciate this, Angie.” The dispatcher’s voice filled the car.
“I didn’t know who else to call with your brother out of town. Annie’s little girl was sick and I told her—”
“It’s okay, Ed,” Angie said. “A sick little girl needs her mother.”
“That’s right. You would know… I forgot you had a heart transplant.”
Angie grimaced behind the steering wheel. How could she ever expect to experience life like a normal person if everyone knew of her condition?
Her family already treated her like a piece of delicate spun glass.
“What’s it like almost dying? Were you scared?”
Angie stared at the car phone, surprised at the intimate question. In truth, she knew too many patients who died waiting for a donor organ.
She’d come to terms with death. But life…
“Gotta go, Ed. The client’s name is H.P. Renard the third, right?
Rhymes with hard?”
She heard something like “yup” before she pushed the button to end the call. Showtime.
“Angel-face.” A grinning bellhop, several years her junior, hustled to her door. “Long time, no see. Where’s Stephen?”
She stepped out of the car, returning Brian’s wide smile. “He’s driving Mom down to Florida. I’m filling in.”
“As you do so well.” Brian said with an appreciative once-over.
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Donna Richards
Angie felt the blush blossoming on her cheeks, mentally cursing the pale complexion that exposed each and every emotion.
The sudden swirl of the revolving door halted their conversation.
Brian whistled low under his breath. Angela numbly nodded her head in agreement. She had thumbed through enough magazines during her convalescence to recognize a high fashion model when she saw one, even if the model was shoving her way through a revolving door.
“How can you expect me to move to this cow town?” The model whined as soon as her escort emerged from the whirling doors. “There’s no parties, no clubs. What am I supposed to do?”
“Quiet, Liz. You just got here,” the man lightly scolded. “You haven’t given Columbus much of a chance.”
“Philip dear, can’t you just commute from New York? Just take one of those little planes and come home for the weekends.”
Angela held the passenger door open, awed by the famous Elizabeth Everett. Stephen had often regaled the family with stories about the famous people who had ridden in one of his cars, but this was her first celebrity.
The model’s full-length mink coat flapped open, revealing a tall, willowy body wrapped in sensuous black silk. She towered over Angela, casting her a brief, bored appraisal before slipping elegantly into the dark interior of the limo. It happened so quickly, Angie forgot for a moment that the car was ordered for Renard, not Everett.
“I’m sorry, Mr.—” She began, unsure how to politely insist the man remove his date from the car.
“Renard,” the man supplied. Angela glanced up, surprised by eyes the color of slate warmed by the afternoon sun. He radiated the self-confidence and calm control of a man well used to the lush leather interior and darkened privacy of a limousine. Impeccably dressed in a tuxedo, he stood quietly assessing her. “You must forgive Elizabeth’s urban attitude. She’s not good with change.”
“Of course,” Angie mumbled, resisting the urge to moisten her suddenly dry lips. How had she missed noticing this drop-dead gorgeous 8
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In a Heartbeat
man earlier? “Sir,” she added quickly. His air of authority demanded it even if he looked to be only a few years her senior.
He chuckled deep in this throat. A quiver flashed about her ribcage in response.
“Philip, come on. You’re letting the cold air in,” the model grumbled from inside the limo. Angela’s short statue, together with her position behind the opened door, enabled her to look in at her passenger. The woman bent over a powdery substance sprinkled generously on the length of her raised finger. A moment later the substance was gone.
Shocked, Angela quickly closed the door, barring Renard entrance.
“You and your date will have to find another ride, sir.” Disgust tinged her voice. “We don’t allow that kind of thing here.”
“What kind of thing?” His brows lifted, a dimple flashed briefly before his gaze shifted to the closed door. “What are you talking about?”
“Drugs,” Angela hissed, keeping her voice low. “This may not be New York, but we have our standards.” She nodded towards Brian standing just inside the Hyatt entrance. “Brian can call you a cab.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, two dark slits that chilled her more than the cool September wind. He stepped around her and yanked the limo door open. “What the hell are you talking about?” His bulk filled the tiny doorway. “There are no drugs in here.” Straightening, he turned and faced Angela. “I don’t know what your game is, lady, but there are no drugs in that car. We’re running late for a dinner engagement. So if you don’t mind—”
“I do mind.” She stretched out all of her five foot four inches. “I know what I saw.”
The man’s glare worked like a battering ram. She braced against the solid support of the limo door, wishing some of the steel would magically osmose into her trembling legs.
“You know I could have your job for this,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she squeezed out between tightly clenched teeth. No need to tell him this wasn’t her regular job.
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Their gazes locked. Her knees weakened. If the issue was anything but drug use, she wasn’t sure she could hold her ground.
“Elizabeth,” he shouted, not breaking eye contact with Angela.
“There’s been a change in plans. We’re taking a cab.”
“But Philip—”
“Don’t talk to me, Elizabeth. Just come.”
He turned and stormed back to the hotel entrance. The man’s tone made it clear he expected to be obeyed.
“So much for my big tip,” Angela murmured to the breeze slapping at her cheeks. She held the rear door as her famous passenger bolted from the backseat and chased after her date. Alone at the curb, she slumped against the car, bewildered and exhausted from the unexpected confrontation.
“Are you all right?” Brian walked briskly to the curb, casting a worried glance at her chest. “Should I call someone? Stephen?”
Angela rolled her eyes to the heavens. “I’m fine, Brian. Just fine.” She slammed the door shut. “It’ll take more than threats from a pompous, New York, third-generation jackass to bother this heart of mine.” She yanked the chauffeur’s cap off her head, freeing the mass of pale blonde hair.
Brian smiled wanly and signaled for a cab. Slipping back into the driver’s seat, Angela reached for the car phone. Better Stephen heard the news from her than a disgruntled client.