Season of Strangers (27 page)

“Hello…Father.”

Watery blue eyes slid open. Shrewd eyes, perceptive, even in the face of death. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Val wondered what the old man might say if he were able to speak.

“Take it easy. You need your rest. You need to try and get some sleep.” So far he had spent little time in the old man's company, just stopped by the house on occasion as Patrick would have done. He didn't want to chance more. If anyone would notice the differences in Patrick Donovan since Val's arrival, it was his father.

He stirred faintly on the bed. One hand was frozen by the stroke, the other started to tremble. He was trying to lift it, Val saw, to reach out and touch his son. Val took the old man's hand and the moment their fingers brushed, a fierce ache constricted inside him. His throat hurt. A lump formed so thick and heavy he feared he would choke.

“Father,” he whispered, knowing the emotion he was feeling was grief. It came from Patrick, was the same pain Julie felt, though Val was able to distance himself, keep the unwanted emotions at a manageable length.

It was Julie he was worried about, Julie who would suffer at the death of someone she loved.

In an instant, his decision was made. Knowing he shouldn't, that whatever happened was best left in the hands of fate, Val leaned closer. Alex Donovan's eyes were closed but the thin veined hand still clung to his. Digging into his pocket, Val removed a small silver plate half the size of a dollar bill and a quarter of an inch thick. It was for medical emergencies. The body he occupied was human, after all. Any number of problems might occur.

Val freed himself from the fragile grip, pressed the plate into his palm then once again reached for the old man's hand. He wasn't sure how much good it would do. The stroke had obviously done extensive damage. But perhaps it would help and if Alex Donovan lived, it would also help Julie, make her terrible sadness go away.

He sat there for several minutes more, then removed the silver plate and shoved it back into his pocket. When he stood up, he saw Julie standing at the door.

“What was that?” she asked as he approached.

“What was what?”

“I thought I saw you put something…” She glanced away, a little embarrassed. “Never mind. I can't seem to think straight with Alex the way he is.”

The doctor walked up just then. “I think we should let him get some rest.” He flicked a glance at Patrick. “Are you planning to spend the night here or…”
Or do you have other more important plans than your father's last night on Earth,
his condemning look said.

Val knew he was thinking of the first stroke Alex had suffered, of the all-night party Patrick had been attending, the girl he'd shacked up with after that. He hadn't gotten home to receive the news till late the next day. In the meantime, his father was very nearly dead.

“We'll be staying, of course,” Julie answered defensively, reading the train of the doctor's thoughts. “I'm sure Mario has already made up our rooms.”

The doctor continued to stare at Patrick.

“I'm staying,” he said.

The older man's mouth softened faintly. “Good. Your father said you had changed since your heart attack. Perhaps he's right.”

Val said nothing and neither did Julie. He had definitely changed. He just hoped, if the old man lived, he wouldn't realize exactly how much.

J
ulie alternated between bouts of weeping and fierce determination. Alex Donovan wasn't the kind to give up, and neither was she. There was always a chance he would live.

But as the hours crept past, the chance seemed more and more remote. At ten o'clock, he slipped into a coma. At midnight, his condition remained the same. At 2:00 a.m., Julie sat in the hall outside his door silently weeping.

Patrick had just gone in.

He came out a few minutes later. “The doctor says he's resting peacefully, which is exactly what you need to do.”

“I'm not leaving. I couldn't sleep, anyway, even if I tried.”

Patrick stayed up, too, sitting beside her on the sofa Mario had ordered placed in the hall, his shoulder solid and comforting beneath her cheek when she finally did fall asleep. She wondered what he was thinking. She remembered how devastated he had been by his father's first stroke, the guilt he had suffered for not being there when his father needed him. He had been nearly unable to function.

This time he seemed far more in control, resigned in some way to accepting whatever fate Alex might suffer. He was a rock of support for her and Nathan, and his strong, reassuring presence helped them through the hours until dawn. She awakened to find his hand gently stroking through her hair.

Rubbing her eyes, she sat up on the sofa. “I must have fallen asleep. How is he?”

“His condition hasn't changed. The doctor is sleeping down the hall. Nathan's with him. It's my turn in another half hour.”

“You've been up all night. I've had a couple of hours rest. I'll sit with him next.”

Patrick shook his head. “I'm not sleepy. I'll take a turn and you can go in after that.”

Julie blinked and stared at him. Except for his slightly wrinkled clothes—light gray slacks and a short-sleeved burgundy pullover—he looked as fresh as he had when he'd arrived. And thinking of his nightly wanderings, she figured it was probably the truth.

“What time is it?” Outside the window, the first gray light of dawn filtered through the trees around the pool.

Patrick glanced down at the expensive Patek Philippe on his wrist. “Five o'clock.”

Hope rushed through her and tears sprang into her eyes. “Then it's almost morning. The doctor said if Alex made it through the first twenty-four hours, he'd have a chance.”

Patrick squeezed her hand. “My father's a tough old bird. Maybe he will.”

Julie just nodded. She didn't want to get her hopes too high, but she couldn't seem to help it. “I'll get us some coffee,” she suggested, no longer sleepy herself.

Patrick gave her a smile. “Just water for me, if you don't mind.”

Julie leaned over and kissed his cheek, feeling the rough black stubble of his night-long vigil. “Sorry, I forgot.”

In the morning, against all odds, Alex Donovan still lived. He remained in a coma, but his vital signs were slightly improved.

“I'll grant it's a good sign,” the doctor said. “But the fact is, recovery in a man Alex's age, in his current physical condition would be almost impossible.”

“But you said—”

“I realize what I said. But a single night doesn't mean all that much. The best course is to resign yourselves. At this stage, considering his paralysis and the fact we don't know how much damage there is to the brain, Alex's passing would probably be for the best.”

The hope inside her slowly faded. Alex would die or be partially paralyzed, maybe brain-damaged, and bedridden for the rest of his life. Whatever happened, Julie intended to be there for him, as he had always been there for her.

For the next three days, except for a quick trip home for her toiletries and fresh clothes, she stayed at the house in Flintridge. Patrick stayed as well, making only a single trip into the office and returning as quickly as he could.

By the fourth night, a bit of color had returned to Alex's face, but the doctor warned them not to read more into it than they should. There was still little chance for any sort of substantial recovery. Alex was simply not in good enough physical condition.

At present, the same could be said for Julie. She hadn't slept for the last three nights, had hardly been able to eat. She knew Patrick was worried about her—and apparently determined to do something about it.

“Get your sweater,” he said, coming up behind her late in the evening. “And a scarf. You're getting out of this house for a while—if I have to tie you up and carry you out.”

She smiled wearily. “That sounds like a threat, Mr. Donovan.”

“It's a promise, Ms. Ferris.”

“All right, I give in. I know when the odds are against me. Just give me a moment to change my clothes.” Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and sneakers and a long-sleeved plaid cotton shirt, she stood in the entry, listening to the roar of Patrick's sleek black Porsche pulling up in front of the house. He had taken off the top, she saw as he opened the passenger door and waited for her to slide in.

“We won't be gone long,” he promised. “Just a quick spin through the hills. I've discovered sometimes a little fresh air works wonders.”

Fresh air.
Not something the old Patrick Donovan would have been interested in. But this Patrick took care of his body, and his mind. Apparently, he also meant to take care of hers.

“Where are we going?” She pulled the bright red scarf around her hair and knotted it beneath her chin.

“There's a place I found up in the hills not far from here. It's beautiful at night. You can look out over the whole city and nobody even knows you're there.”

Julie said nothing. It did feel good to be out of the house, but guilt gnawed at her. What if something happened while they were gone? “Maybe we shouldn't do this, Patrick. I'd feel terrible if something happened and we weren't there when Alex needed us.”

Patrick pushed the car into a sharp, slightly banked turn. “My father could linger as he is for days, even weeks. He loves you, Julie. Do you think he'd want to see you like this? You'll wind up making yourself sick, too.”

“I don't know…I'm just so worried.” She looked over at him and her eyes filled with tears. “I don't want him to die, Patrick. I just don't want him to die.”

She started crying then, choking sobs that came from deep inside her. Patrick cursed as he turned off the road into the private spot he had found overlooking the city. He killed the engine, reached across the console, and pulled her into his arms.

“It's all right, baby. I know what you're feeling. I know how bad it hurts.” He pressed a soft kiss on her cheek, another against the side of her neck. “Hush, love, please don't cry. He wouldn't want to see you like this.” He rained soft kisses over her forehead, kissed her eyes, then lightly kissed her lips.

Julie looked up at him, saw his beautiful blue eyes darkened with concern, and the hurt inside began to ease. She feel his heartbeat, the warmth of his hands, and the pain began to change, to mesh with the heat of his lean hard body against her breasts. It fused with the fierce need for comfort roaring to life inside her.

“I need you, Patrick,” she whispered. “I need you so much.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she pulled his mouth down to hers for a kiss. It was soft at first, just a tender brushing of lips. His hands slid into her hair and Patrick deepened the kiss, sensing her urgency, her quiet desperation. His mouth felt hot and moist, tinged with the coppery taste of his desire. Julie's own desire swelled, making her body pliant against his, allowing his tongue to plunge in, accepting its invasion and pressing her own tongue into his mouth in return.

His hands found her breasts and he cupped them through her clothes. He lifted the rounded weight, pinched the ends until they hardened, and began to unbutton her cotton shirt. There was nothing of gentleness in his touch—it wasn't gentle she wanted. She wanted to forget her fears for Alex, to feel the heat of desire, to be scorched by it, and for these few moments be consumed.

The top two buttons on her shirt popped off in her haste to be rid of it and disappeared under the seat. She tugged Patrick's pullover off, then ran her fingers over his shoulders and across his broad chest. It was heavily furred and ridged with muscle, his stomach flat and narrow with a row of muscular indentations down each side.

His teeth nipped into her neck and a shot of pleasure rippled through her, then he lifted a breast into his palm, settled his mouth over the fullness and began to suckle the end.

Liquid heat slid through her, collected in the place between her legs. In the cramped little sports car, it was nearly impossible to move, yet she frantically dug at the buttons on the front of his designer jeans, pulled them open and reached inside. He was rock-hard, hot and pulsing.

Patrick's fingers found the zipper on her jeans and his hand slid inside, slipped beneath the small elastic waistband on her panties. He parted the folds of her sex and began to arouse the tiny bud at her core. In minutes she was writhing in the seat as she reached a powerful climax.

She thought she heard him groan.

Through the euphoric haze of her release, she heard his footfalls outside the car, straightened when he pulled open her door and urged her out into the darkness. Julie kissed him wildly as he lifted her onto the hood of the car, jerked off her sneakers, pulled her jeans down over her hips and tossed them away. He grabbed hold of her panties and dragged them down, ripping them away in his haste to have them gone. A long, deep-tongued kiss, and he urged her backward, parted her legs and moved between them. He kissed her breasts, nipped them with his teeth, laved and tasted her nipple.

Fire seemed to burn where he touched, to move along the path he trailed from her breasts to her navel. He laved the indentation with his tongue, then moved lower, through the dense auburn curls at the juncture of her legs, settling his mouth over the throbbing bud below.

Julie cried out when he began to suckle there, to taste and stroke, then delve deeply inside her. In seconds she was writhing, lacing her fingers in his wavy black hair, softly moaning his name. He didn't stop until she arched upward, coming fully to climax again, her body trembling all over.

She should have been sated, but the ache had been so fierce, her need so strong that when Patrick eased her off the hood, turned her onto her stomach, and bent her over the fender, heat roared through her again. Freeing himself from his snug-fitting jeans, he drove into her swiftly, raising her hips to take more of him, pounding into her with a need that seemed as great as her own.

It was madness, she knew, yet she didn't want it to end. Not until she felt the tightness building inside her, felt each of his thrusts as if he were a part of her, as if they were a single person bent on finding pleasure.

“Patrick!” she cried out, his hands at her waist, gripping her hips to lift her and fill her completely. Pounding, pounding, a rain of sensation poured through her, pushing her over the edge. Her body coiled tighter, tighter, then the coil sprang free.

Wicked, glorious pleasure. Ecstasy so sweet she could taste it on her tongue.

Patrick came, too. Every muscle tightening, his heart thundering, a low growl of pleasure erupting from his throat. He sank inside her again, bent forward and kissed the nape of her neck, held her until their trembling bodies stilled. Then he lifted her off the car and turned her into his arms, kissed her tenderly one last time.

His hand combed lightly through her hair. “You know this wasn't the reason I brought you out here.”

“I know.”

“I can't say I'm sorry it happened.”

She reached up and touched his cheek. “Neither can I. Thank you, Patrick.”

“For what? Making love to a beautiful woman?”

“For knowing just what I needed.”

“My pleasure,” he said with a teasing grin. He picked up her discarded jeans and handed them over. In the sliver of moon shining down, she could have sworn he blushed when he handed her the ruined panties.

“We'd better go,” she said and Patrick nodded.

Julie let him help her into the car and close the door, then watched his long-legged strides as he rounded the Porsche and climbed in. All the way back to the house, her eyes kept straying to his dark, handsome profile, the black flaring brows, the bright blue eyes and solid jaw. She thought of the way they had just made love, the feel of his mouth and hands on her body, his hard length inside her. She had never felt more complete, never felt more of a woman.

Julie leaned back against the headrest, gazing up at the stars. The truth was plain, even if she didn't want to see it. She was in love with Patrick Donovan. Wildly, insanely, passionately in love with him. Just like every other woman he had ever known.

The thought was terrifying.

As horrifying as Laura's fear of alien abduction. Maybe even worse.

 

Miraculously, five days after his near-fatal stroke, Alexander Donovan began to recover. He came out of his coma asking for his son, whose smile was wide and warm. By the end of the second week, Alex Donovan was sitting up in bed, and to Dr. McClean's amazement, his brain seemed undamaged. He had even begun to regain the use of his paralyzed left hand.