Secrets and Seduction: 5 Romance Novels (93 page)

“Sure, son. We’ll be waiting.”

Michael ended the call and rubbed his forehead. His thoughts fragmented, racing a million miles an hour through every possibility. With difficulty, he reined them to a stop. Dr. Ramos would tell them what they needed to do.

“Michael?”

Slowly he looked up. He’d forgotten Ileana was there. Her beauty smote him once more, but not even lust could rise from the ashes of hope.

She rose and moved around his desk to face him unobstructed. “What is it?”

She was a stranger, a business associate. Except for Desiree, his co-workers knew very little about him personally, and he liked it that way. There was sympathy and concern on her lovely face. He’d carried the load alone for so long. He’d really like some of that caring aimed at him.

“My mom’s cancer is back. We have to go to the hospital today to find out where it’s spread.” He would not break down in front of Ileana.

“How terrible for her and for you. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

Hold me
. He trapped the vulnerable words behind his teeth, simply shaking his head. He’d been strong for his parents since his brother was murdered, had been there for them, been with them through the first cancer diagnosis. He’d be their support through this recurrence. That was his duty as the oldest son.

It had been his job as the oldest to protect Billy, too. But Billy was an adult. It was his right to move away from home, just as Rick and Charlie had done, and nothing had happened to either of them. But three times had not been the charm, and Billy had died.

Michael wouldn’t let that happen to his mom. “Thanks for offering to help. It’s very kind of you. But I’ll make sure my parents have everything they need.”

“We’ll need to remove the other breast,” Dr. Ramos informed Michael and his parents.

Michael’s mother’s gasp sounded like pain. He squeezed her hand trying to imbue his strength into her. His father held her other hand in a white-knuckled grip. Her face was white and strained, the skin taut across her cheekbones.

“We’ll take the lymph nodes, too, this time.” Ernesto Ramos was the foremost oncologist in Miami. His black hair was touched with gray in a way that made him look handsome and distinguished.

“Her lungs?” Mr. Ziffkin’s voice sounded hoarse.

“Clear,” Dr. Ramos answered immediately and with evident relief. “I saw no other signs of cancer.”

Mrs. Ziffkin sagged, her eyes closing.

“Did you miss something the first time?” Michael asked. “Is that why the cancer came back?”

“No, it’s simply an aggressive cancer.” Dr. Ramos held up his hand to forestall Michael’s questions. “We’ve caught it very early, so with equally aggressive treatment we’ll stop it.”

“Chemo and radiation again?” Michael asked without looking at his mother.

“To be certain, yes.”

Michael’s mother made a little sound in her throat. Her hair had finally grown back out in time for Charlie’s wedding, and she’d been getting ready to teach school again. He knew how sick the chemo made her, and he hated that she had to go through the ordeal again.

Michael grasped at one last straw. “Did you look over the information on the trials they’re holding in India that I sent you?”

“I did, Michael. I believe the treatment plan I’ll outline will be satisfactory. You and your parents won’t have to leave the country.” He turned to address Michael’s mother. “Jane, I’d like to schedule surgery as soon as possible. How does Monday morning sound?”

She gave his father an agonized look then turned back to Dr. Ramos and lifted her chin. “My youngest son is getting married next weekend. I want to be at the wedding.”

“Mom, Dr. Ramos thinks you need the surgery right away,” Michael protested.

She shot him her schoolteacher glare, and he fought to keep from cringing. Her health was too important.

“I’ve waited so long for you boys to get married. Rick went down to the courthouse to marry Analise. This is the first real wedding one of my sons has had. I don’t intend to miss it.”

“Will a week make a difference, Dr. Ramos?” his father asked.

“No, a week won’t make a difference. Shall we schedule the surgery for the Monday after next?”

Mrs. Ziffkin’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes. That will work perfectly.”

“The wedding will do wonders for your morale, I think,” Dr. Ramos stated as he filled out paperwork.

“Yes it will. My son and his fiancé grew up together. Fate brought them together again.”

Dr. Ramos cocked an eyebrow. “How strange to hear someone so down-to-earth say such a thing.”

Michael’s mom gave a small smile. “It’s been a strange year.”

Michael couldn’t stand not knowing a minute longer. “What’s the prognosis, Dr. Ramos?” He sensed the chill that overtook his parents.

Again, Dr. Ramos spoke to Mrs. Ziffkin. “I believe your prognosis is excellent. Between the surgery, the chemo, and the radiation you should be cancer free.”

Michael bit back the words
but for how long?

They made the arrangements for the surgery, scheduled the pre-admission testing, and finally made their way to the car. His mother looked tired and shaken, but not beaten. A muscle jumped in his father’s jaw. His parents held hands.

As he drove them home, Michael carefully asked, “Mom, the wedding won’t be too much for you, will it?”

“No, honey. I don’t have to do anything but attend the rehearsal, the dinner, and the wedding. Juliana’s family is taking care of everything. Your father and I just have to go where we’re told.”

“You still have to smile and be surrounded by hundreds of strangers.”

His mom peered at him intently. “Michael, you’re not...upset...that Charlie’s getting married before you, are you?”

“No. I’m just worried you’ll be worn out by all the hoopla.”

“I’m gaining another daughter-in-law. That makes me very happy. I’ll be just as happy on your wedding day.”

“Mom.”

“Don’t worry about the wedding. And don’t breathe a word about the surgery to Charlie and Juliana. I won’t have their day spoiled. This should be the happiest day of their lives.”

At ten o’clock that night Michael turned off his computer and leaned back against his chair. He’d researched mortality rates for breast cancer recurrence, read anecdotal stories from survivors, re-read the theories about the power of positive thinking, and searched for more new treatments. His head felt stuffed with information. He felt drained, but he knew he had no chance of sleeping because his brain was wide awake.

He’d gone for a run with Jamal after returning from his parents’ house where he’d stayed for dinner. Hell, he’d helped cook dinner and cleaned up afterwards. He was wired enough to need another run but not at this hour. Sex would work off his tension. Too bad he wasn’t involved with anyone. He thought about Ileana—she’d wear him out but good.

But thinking about her only made him tenser. He pushed out of the chair and wandered his condo, his movements restless. He stared out the sliding glass doors at the water in the channel the complex abutted. A dock jutted into the water. He could go sit on the end of it and dangle his feet in the water. It was something he’d done with his brothers during family vacations when they were younger. The four of them would roughhouse on the dock until the inevitable happened and one of them tumbled into the water—usually Charlie. The rest soon followed, cooling off in the warm water because that’s what boys did. Afterwards, they’d bear a scolding from their mom for spoiling the baths they’d had in the tub earlier. But they’d had so much fun together they hadn’t cared.

They hadn’t been four peas in a pod. They’d had four distinct personalities. But they’d been so close. His brothers had accepted his silent moods without question. No, they’d ignored the moods, acted like they didn’t exist. They’d included him even while he brooded. He hadn’t had that total acceptance in years. Not since Billy died.

Michael opened the door and stepped out onto the deck. The night sweltered, still trying to throw off the day’s heat. He gripped the edge of the wooden deck. The scent of unchlorinated water, recently mowed lawn, and charcoal teased his nose.

Part of him had died with Billy, the part that could join in a rowdy group even while he was pensive. His brothers had closed up and closed him out. All the happy laughter and good times, the long distance calls that stirred warmth in his heart, had dried up in one fatal instant. Then he’d been completely alone. His friend Jamal couldn’t take his brothers’ place. No one could recreate the history he shared with his brothers.

He’d missed them a lot in the past two years. But he’d learned to live without them. That was his punishment for his failure as a big brother. But though he deserved his solitary state, he’d discovered recently that he resented his brothers moving past Billy’s death. He resented them finding happiness and being able to build lives with the women they loved. He resented being on the outside now, no longer a part of their magic circle.

And he resented like hell that he had to carry the fear for his mother alone. He knew it was irrational and unreasonable. His brothers weren’t ignoring their parents. They were just living their lives unknowing, while Michael got to carry this weight every day.

He had to stay positive to keep his parents positive because the mind could perform miracles. But he was no saint; he was just a man, a man with a sick mother. And even though he’d been independent for years, he still felt like a little boy inside and needed his mother’s comfort. But she couldn’t comfort him about this.

He returned inside to do sit-ups and push-ups until his gut ached and his biceps and shoulders burned. Then he took another shower and lay down on the cool bed sheets. Alone.

• • •

The woman lay on a concrete surface as though asleep. But she was unnaturally still. She was young and pretty, her long straight hair, dark brown. She wore only mint green lingerie, her ample breasts nearly popping out of the lace cups. Her limbs lay loosely akimbo, as though she’d fallen. Her chest no longer moved up and down with her breaths, and because of that, someone else was in danger.

Ileana woke gasping. Automatically she turned on the light, reached for the little tablet and pen on her bedside table and wrote down what she could remember. It was the Sight. No dream felt like the Sight did when she experienced it, so incredibly real and vivid.

Ileana didn’t know the young white woman and was unlikely to meet her because she spent her days surrounded by Cubans. She was sure the woman was dead, but how had she died? There was no blood, no wound. The woman looked peaceful, like she’d gone to sleep.

Ileana grabbed her robe from the end of the bed and wrapped it around herself. She always felt cold after the Sight. She’d only dreamed of death once—when one of her aunts died in a car accident. Why would she dream of this stranger’s death?

She never dreamed of things unrelated to her or her family or their business. How was this woman linked to them? Could she be a customer?

Ileana didn’t know all her neighbors. Could one of them be ill? Could one of them have been slipped a date-rape drug and died? Or OD’d on some other narcotic? But if that was the case, it didn’t explain why Ileana had dreamed about her. A neighbor wouldn’t usually trigger her Sight.

The last dream she’d had, had been of Michael, and he’d been a stranger. Was she going to meet this woman soon, maybe the live version so she could warn her? Ileana had to content herself with that.

Wide awake now, Ileana knew she wouldn’t sleep. Michael’s name had brought his image to her mind. Her body suffused with an all-over flush and liquid heat pooled in her lower belly. Although the Sight had prophesied Michael would be her lover, they had moved no closer to intimacy. Her Sight was faultless, so she wondered what would have to happen to change their relationship. Was the barrier her own self, her resistance to his race?

At times, she thought Michael yearned just as strongly as she did for a joining. At other times, he held himself coolly aloof, like he had after the phone call today. Maybe his mother’s illness was the deterrent. His face had been strained during the call, his shoulders slumped as though weighed down by a burden. And what a burden. If her mother had faced cancer even once, Ileana would have been a basket case. She worried over her father’s health; after all, high blood pressure could lead to heart attack and stroke. His mortality pressed on the edge of her awareness.

But cancer was a frightening disease. The word made people cringe. She’d thought Michael uncaring about his family, but today she’d seen he cared a great deal, he felt deeply, he loved his mother a lot. She understood that kind of love. She knew it intimately. And knowing Michael felt the way he did made her heart warm to him.

He must feel so alone. Something in her cried out for his pain and his solitary suffering. He’d rebuffed her offer of help. But perhaps the Sight had held a different meaning. Perhaps she was to offer him the comfort of her arms and her body. She knew about heartache and loss. She knew what it was like to writhe in her solitary bed feeling alone and disconnected from the world.

Michael could not turn to his parents for comfort. He needed someone. In his hour of need, she would offer herself to him. She could let him sate himself in her for as long as he needed her. Her body clenched in response. They’d have to meet secretly. Her family must not know. They’d never accept such wanton behavior...and with a white man.

Bold words in the darkest hour of the night. She hadn’t dated in a dozen years. She knew what modern women did in the dating world, but she’d never done anything like that. How was she supposed to become Michael’s lover?

Ileana huffed a self-deprecating laugh. Men knew what to do with a willing woman. She just had to let Michael know she was willing. He’d take it from there.

And take her. Over and over again. She knew from her dream.

In the morning, she would call him and accept his initial invitation for a date...a real one. Her mind made up, Ileana snuggled down into her covers. Roberto’s picture smiled at her from the nightstand. He’d been an outwardly passionate man, in the first blush of real manhood when he died. He’d lit an equally passionate fire in her. Joy had sung through her veins for three short years before it had been snuffed out, along with all of her plans and dreams. They’d been soulmates, the halves that completed one another.