Listed: Volume II (11 page)

“Sit
down,” she instructed, frowning at him when he just stood in the middle of the
kitchen. “The pancakes are ready.”

Paul
sat down at the kitchen table, automatically obeying her instructions. She put
a plate of three slightly lopsided pancakes in front of him and then gave him
the butter, syrup, and utensils.

“What
about yours?” he asked, when she didn’t put a plate down for herself.

“Mine
are coming, but you have to eat yours now or they’ll be cold.” She poured him a
cup of coffee, which he’d somehow forgotten about getting. Then she gave him a
glass of orange juice too. When he just looked at her blankly, she frowned
indignantly. “Eat!”

Paul
ate.

“You’re
really feeling all right?” he asked, as he quickly buttered his pancakes.

Emily
was standing over the skillet again, waiting for her pancakes to brown. “Yes. I
woke up with all this energy—although it’s probably just because it’s so nice
not to have a fever. I’m already getting kind of tired now, so I’m sure I’ll
crash eventually.”

He
nodded, taking his first bite of pancakes. “You should try to rest a lot today.
These are really good!” The pancakes were good and—despite the meal he’d had in
the middle of the night—Paul was absolutely ravenous.

Emily
flushed with pleasure as she flipped the pancakes on the skillet. “Thank you,” she
told him. “And how are
you
feeling this morning?”

“I’m
fine,” he said automatically.

“Are
you sure? I know you stayed up the whole time with me. You’ve got to be
exhausted.”

He
did feel kind of exhausted, even after sleeping so late. He just shrugged, though.
“I slept well. If you rest today, do you think you’ll be up to traveling
tomorrow? I can reschedule our trip for tomorrow if—”

“Yes!”
Emily burst in, grinning at him. She was piling pancakes into a plate, but he
could see the excitement vibrating off her. “That’s perfect. Thank you so
much!”

“Of
course.”

He
watched as she brought the stack of four pancakes over to the table. His were
almost gone now, but she put two of the fresh ones into his plate and took the
remaining two over to her place at the table.

He
let her use the butter first before he slathered some on his new pancakes. He’d
taken a big bite when Emily’s voice broke into his eating.

“Paul,
I really need to thank you for everything you did yesterday.”

Paul
felt awkward, as he always did when she tried to thank him so earnestly, and he
tried to shrug it away.

“I
mean it,” she persisted, trying to catch his eyes. “I want to say this. I was
out of it for most of yesterday, but I know what it must have been like for
you, what you had to do to take care of me. I know I didn't act grateful
yesterday, but I am. It means so much to me that you did that.”

Paul’s
chest felt very uncomfortable from both the tone and the sentiment of this
conversation, so he stuffed another bite of pancake into his mouth and didn’t
meet her eyes.

“But
I have to say that I don’t think you should have to do that again.”

He
had to swallow before he opened his mouth to object, so Emily had time to talk
over him.

“I’m
serious, Paul. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you did. But I don’t
want you to have to do all that. It’s not your job. You shouldn’t have to do
it.”

“I’ve
told you before,” he muttered, “You’re my responsibility.”

“I
know that. I know you’re serious about that. It means so much to me. But you
can fulfill that responsibility, you can make sure I’m taken care of, without
doing it all yourself. I really want…I would like for you to hire a nurse for
next time. It’s just going to get worse. You can’t do it all yourself. I don’t
want you to. It will be so much easier with a nurse.”

Paul
stared at her, his immediate reaction one of irrational possessiveness, an
inexplicable resentment at the thought of someone else, a stranger, caring for
Emily when she was so sick and vulnerable. She was
his
wife. She was
his
to take care of. It was
his
job.

But
he could feel that dark, gaping hole of yesterday still looming at the back of
his mind, waiting to swallow him up. A few specific memories pierced through
the fog of helplessness and anxiety.

She’d
been tossing frantically on her bed, crying brokenly to him for help. He hadn’t
been able to help her.

She’d
been delirious, screaming at him for lying to her, abandoning her, letting her
aunt die. She’d been beating at him with her fists. He’d been desperate,
absolutely desperate, with no idea what to do.

She'd
been naked and writhing as he tried to get her into the bathtub without her
drowning or knocking herself unconscious on the side of the tub.

She'd
tossed in the bed, in horrible pain, for hour after hour after hour. And all he
could do was sit and watch her.

The
idea of living through that again was so awful it almost pulled him down into
that dark, gaping hole.

Emily
was offering him an escape, though. A way out.

He
could still take care of her, fulfill his responsibilities, but not live
through that again.

“I
don’t know,” he said slowly, that weird flash of possessiveness rearing up once
more.

“Please,
Paul.” Emily’s voice held an almost desperate plea. “Tell me you’ll have a
nurse ready for next time. I never would have done this to you if I thought
you’d have to do…do all that.”

“Okay,”
Paul agreed, letting himself grasp at the only way out of the gaping hole that
threatened to claim him. “If that’s what you want, I’ll get a nurse.” A clench
in his gut and his chest that he hadn’t been consciously aware of relaxed as he
made the decision.

This
would be better. So much safer. He could get the best nurse money could buy to
take care of Emily when she was sick. He wouldn’t have to see her suffer like
that. He wouldn’t have to watch helplessly and grope blindly for some way to
make her feel better.

She
would still be taken care of, but it wouldn’t have to hurt him so much.

With
that, and with the relief from the snuffing of those guilty sexual thoughts
about someone who was off-limits to him in every way, Paul thought he could
make it through this marriage without being completely torn apart.

*
* *

Paul told Emily he was
going into his room to make some calls about rescheduling their trip to Egypt.

He
did call the administrative assistant who worked for him and asked her to make
all of the arrangements, using the itinerary he’d originally set up but
changing it for them to fly out tomorrow instead of Sunday.

Then
he called someone else.

He
was told he was being foolish. He was told his request was impossible. He was
told there was absolutely nothing that could be done in three months.

Paul
understood the nature of medical research. There were no quick fixes. Effective
drugs took years and years to develop. But it was possible they wouldn’t have
to start from scratch.

The
doctors and the FBI hadn’t been able to find any evidence, but he wasn’t
convinced this virus was accidental or random. If his father was somehow
involved, then the doctors wouldn’t have to start from square one for a cure.

There
might already be one in existence.

When
he hung up, he called up his lawyer and got a referral to one of the best
private investigation firms in the Philadelphia area. Then he made a couple
more calls until he was able to talk to the person he wanted.

Someone
needed to get into his father’s research facility and find out whether
biological weapons were part of the research there, and Paul himself obviously
couldn’t do it.

He
wasn’t going to tell Emily. She’d told him flat out that she didn’t want to go
on a futile search for a cure or try any experimental treatments that almost
certainly wouldn’t work.

But
it seemed ludicrous not to try at all, so Paul got the private investigator on
the case.

He
left his room and heard the television on in the parlor, so he wandered over to
find her. He didn’t see her until he came around the sofa that was facing the
fireplace and plasma television.

She
was sound asleep, curled up on the sofa.  It wasn’t even noon, but she
must have crashed, exhausted after her ordeal the day before.

She
was his wife. She wasn’t even eighteen yet, and she had no one but him to help
her.

She
was huddled up tightly, and he thought maybe she was cold, so he went to get a
soft, knit throw from a chair. He draped it over her, tucking it around her
shoulders. She clutched at the throw instinctively in her sleep, nestling into
it.

Paul
gazed down at her, carefully assessing his reactions. He was once again
relieved when he wasn’t taunted by any wayward thoughts regarding her.
Hopefully, he was past that now and could concentrate on what was more
important.

Emily
trusted him. She was depending on him for help. She didn’t have anyone else.

There
wasn’t much of a chance, but a slim chance was better than nothing.

Maybe
he could save her.

Maybe
she didn’t have to die.

*
* *

Something was wrong
with their suite.

They’d
arrived in Cairo late in the day and had been taken by hired car to their
hotel. Then the private concierge had shown them up to their rooms.

Emily
was ecstatic—on an exhausted high from the long flight and the excitement of
finally being in Egypt. She was transparently thrilled by the gorgeous suite,
which somehow managed to look exotic, historic, and luxurious all at once.

She’d
made a circle of the main sitting area, almost clapping her hands with delight
over the antique furniture, chandelier, and rich fabrics. Then she had seen the
French doors that led out to the large terrace and had given a squeal as she’d
stepped out and gazed at the view from their vantage point on the highest floor
of the hotel.

Beyond
a lovely stretch of green trees and foliage of the city’s botanical gardens,
they could see the sun setting behind the Great Pyramids in the distance.

The
concierge smiled paternally at Emily’s pleasure. “This suite has perhaps the
best views in the entire city.” He spoke in beautifully articulated British
English.

It
was true. Paul couldn’t deny it. The long-suppressed romantic part of his
nature thrilled at the gorgeous view and the millennia-long history it evoked.

Bu
he knew there was something wrong with this suite.

All
of the furniture was elegant, built from dark, polished woods and upholstered
in sumptuous fabrics. The hardwood floors gleamed, and the art was tasteful and
soothing. The four-poster bed in the adjoining room was huge, with silk bedding
and a gauzy canopy.

He
walked into the bedroom and saw it had the same incredible view of the
Pyramids. The connecting bathroom had a marble walk-in shower and a huge
claw-foot soaking tub.

Paul
returned to the sitting area, where the concierge was waiting patiently for
Paul’s approval.

But
Paul
didn’t
approve. There were no more doors off the sitting area.

This
suite only had one bedroom. Only one bed.

“Paul,
come look!” Emily called out. “It’s amazing!”

“Just
a minute.”

He
walked over to the concierge. “This isn’t the suite I’d originally requested,
is it?”

The
concierge’s brows drew together in concern. “No, Mr. Marino. This is the
honeymoon suite. When you had to reschedule your reservations, the suite you’d
requested was no longer available. But I told your assistant that this suite
was equally spacious and had an even better view, and she said since you and
your wife are newly married it should work perfectly. Is it not to your liking,
sir?”

Paul
felt tense and wasn’t sure what to say. He murmured to the concierge that he
needed to speak with his wife for a moment, and then he went to join Emily on
the balcony.

“Isn’t
it perfect?” Emily gushed, turning to look at Paul. “I can’t believe I’m really
here. And we get to look at
this
for three days!” She stretched out her arms
toward the lush view as if she wanted to embrace it.

Paul’s
heart was beating faster with pressing tension. Emily had suffered so much in
the last few months. She'd suffered so much two days ago. And this suite, this
view, was making her happy.

He
hated to disappoint her, but something would have to be done.

“I’m
sorry, Emily,” he said in a low voice, so the concierge inside wouldn’t
overhear. “We may need to change rooms.”

“No!”
Emily cried, her face twisting in disappointment. “Why? This is perfect. This
is the suite I want.”