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Gabrielle had filled a pan with milk and put it on the stove.
There wouldn’t have been any doubts a year ago. ‘My innocent Gabriella,’ her father had called her once, and she knew it was true. She’d led a sheltered life. The Vitale compound was quiet and secure, and insulated from the world.
In the real world, people were not always what they seemed. The authorities who were sworn to uphold the law hadn’t hesitated to coerce her into co-operating. Reporters had lied to get her story. And the man she called Uncle Tony was…
Was what? A union boss, that was all he was.
Suppose—just suppose there was more to it than that. Suppose there was substance to the ugly charges levelled against him. Suppose her testimony, simple as it was, might damage him.
Vitale’s not going to let you just walk away, young lady…
The milk had hissed as it boiled over the rim of the pan, and she’d snatched it from the stove, drawing in her breath as the pot handle burned her fingers.
No. That was ridiculous. Uncle Tony wasn’t—he wouldn’t…
Besides, if James had been sent to hurt her, he could have just let the truck run her down that first morning. And they’d been alone for hours last night.
Unless he was toying with her. Or waiting for his orders. Or…
Gabrielle drew in her breath. The past months had turned her brain to mush. She wasn’t in any danger, not from Tony Vitale. It was the authorities who’d turned her life upside-down, not he.
The rain had lessened by morning. She’d put on a sweat-suit and her running shoes and started towards the shop. She had almost been there when thunder rolled across the sky and the rain turned into a downpour. Gabrielle had lifted her face to the drops and let them cool her flushed cheeks. Suddenly, what had happened with James had seemed very simple to understand.
He didn’t really know anything about her. Steaks, baked potatoes and green salads were standard American fare, red wine was a charming romantic touch.
Her cynical reaction to the evening was what didn’t fit the picture. She’d been riding an emotional rollercoaster for so long that it had twisted her view of life.
Her past was still with her, and until she managed to put it aside, until she could look at life without seeing shadows where there were none, the best kind of relationship was no relationship at all, and never mind the way her body had seemed to turn to warm honey in James’s arms.
‘Gaby?’
She turned, startled, as Alma stepped through the beaded curtain, her pretty face wreathed in frowns.
Gabrielle sighed. ‘Don’t tell me. The cactus plants have decided to mount all-out war and…’ Her teasing words drifted to silence. ‘Alma? What’s happened?’
The other woman swallowed. ‘It’s—it’s the hospital, Gaby. They asked for you.’
Gabrielle’s mouth went dry. Wispy memories rose like smoke from a dying fire; she felt herself spinning back to a time when a call from the hospital could only be a harbinger of tragedy.
She brushed past Alma and pushed through the curtain. Her hand shook as she snatched up the telephone.
‘This is Gabrielle Shelton,’ she said.
The disembodied voice was the same as the ones she’d heard so many times before—cool, efficient, and determined to give nothing away.
‘Ms Shelton, this is St Francis Hospital. Do you know a James Forrester?’
No. No!
Gabrielle sank back against the door-jamb. ‘Yes, yes, I know him.’
‘There’s been an accident, Ms Shelton.’
‘An accident?’ ‘
‘An automobile accident. Mr Forrester had your name and phone number on his person. We thought, if you were a friend or a relative… ?’
There was a questioning silence. ‘No, I’m not. Not really. I…’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Is he… is he… ?’
‘The doctor is with him now. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask your questions of him.’
‘But I’m not…’
Gabrielle closed her eyes. She remembered how lonely a place a hospital could be, how little human warmth there was amid all the life-saving machinery.
More than that, she remembered the way she’d felt when James had held her, the slow heat that had penetrated the thorny exterior within which she hid. Suddenly, the decisions of a moment ago were meaningless.
She grabbed for her coat, then pulled a notepad towards her.
‘Tell me how to get there,’ she said.
Seconds later, Gabrielle flew out of the door.
Why was traffic always at its worst when you were in a hurry?
Rain drummed against the windscreen of Gabrielle’s little Toyota as she sat waiting for a traffic light to change. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard, then slapped her hand on the steering-wheel.
‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered.
The light turned to green and Gabrielle stepped on the accelerator. The car dashed through the intersection, skidding lightly as she turned down Bienville Road. She had to be close to the hospital by now—the woman on the phone had given clear directions. Of course, she hadn’t written them down half as clearly. Apprehension had made her handwriting suddenly cramped and spidery. But surely she’d followed all the rights and lefts and…?
Yes! There it was, St Francis Hospital, an old redbrick building rising out of the mist. Her heart thudded as she pulled into the car park and found a space for the Toyota. Soon, she thought, stepping out into the rain, soon she’d know.
She’d tried not to think about what awaited her while she drove. Experience had taught her that that kind of speculating only made things worse. But by the time she’d got halfway across the city, a cold knot of anxiety lay heavy in her breast. Please, she’d kept thinking, please.
The hospital lobby was like an aquarium tank. Rain drummed against the windows and washed down the glass. Bright lights cast unrelenting illumination on the cold plastic furnishings.
Gabrielle’s footsteps faltered as she neared the information desk. Please, she thought, please…
The receptionist’s smile was as false as her hair colour. ‘Yes? May I help you?’
Gabrielle cleared her throat. ‘James Forrester,’ she said in a papery whisper. ‘I—I had a call about him a little while ago. I wondered if you could—if you knew…’
‘Regular or Emergency?’
‘I don’t…’
‘Did he come in through Regular Admissions or Emergency?’
‘I don’t know. They said—they said he’d had an automobile accident.’
The receptionist nodded. ‘Emergency, probably. Go straight down that hall and then turn left. You can’t miss it.’
Her heart was racing by the time she reached the swinging doors that led to the emergency clinic. Easy, she told herself, easy. She took a last deep breath and then pushed open the doors.
The sights and smells of the clinic rolled over her like a wave against a sandy beach. Memories rushed back and an all-too familiar nausea rose in her throat. She swallowed past it, then swallowed again until she’d conquered it.
Easy does it, she told herself. You’ll be no use at all if you let this happen.
She moved slowly into the room, breathing shallowly, trying to ignore the feeling of deja vu that accompanied being in a hospital again. James had to be here somewhere—the only question was how to find him. That was what she’d concentrate on.
The room was overflowing with people and noise. Babies wailed in their mothers’ arms; the melodic chimes of an electronic pager insisted on being heard. Voices rose and fell, the soft sounds of the south mingling with the strangely strident tones of downtown New Orleans.
Gabrielle’s nostrils flared at the sting of the pungent antiseptic, rejecting the darker smells she knew lay just beneath.
Ordered lines of metal chairs faced another admission desk. A woman seated in one of the chairs looked up, her eyes dark with exhaustion. Beside her, a man coughed apologetically into his handkerchief.
&n
bsp; Gabrielle’s gaze swept past them, still searching for James. There was a double-width doorway beyond the chairs, through which she glimpsed examination cubicles, and she took a hesitant step in that direction.
‘Out of the way, miss. Cornin’ through.’
She scrambled back as a gurney trundled by. A sheet-covered figure lay on it, face turned aside, bottles and tubes snaking from beneath the sheet.
Gabrielle’s legs turned to jelly. ‘James?’ she whispered.
The face turned to her and she breathed a sigh of relief. No. Not James, thank God. Not…
‘Gabrielle?’
The voice was low, tight with exhaustion, but she knew it at once.
‘James,’ she whispered, spinning towards the sound.
All the doubts she’d harboured about himsuch a short time ago fell from her like petals from a flower. He looked the way he sounded—weary, in pain, almost defeated. He was sitting on a metal chair, his left leg stiffly elevated on a low stool. His trousers were ripped to the knee; she glimpsed tape or plaster, white as bone, lying just beneath. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall beside him.
