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His words cooled my temper a little, but I was still confused why he seemed so panicked.
“Why do you need to rush off? What’s going on with my wife?”
Bowen shifted on his feet and the way his eyes darted away from me told me that he was hiding something. The question was how long had he been keeping secrets from me?
“I won’t ask again,” I said softly.
“She’s dying,” he blurted, then winced. “Well, possibly might die.”
Everything in me went still. “What do you mean she might be dying?”
“Brain tumor. They wanted to treat it or operate, give her a good chance of surviving and having a normal life, but she refused.” He looked away, unable to meet my gaze. “She wants to die.”
Hearing those words made it feel like someone had shoved a knife through my chest. The sweet, fiery girl I’d married wanted to die? What the fuck had happened to her that she’d want something like that? I’d given her this house, staff to care for her every need, put money into an account for her to shop or have lunch with any friends she made.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would Carmella want to die?”
The look he gave me would have made a lesser man step back. The fury in his eyes said clearly that he was laying the blame at my feet. Before I could put him in his place, he took me down a few pegs, his every word hitting me like bullets.
“She waited for you,” Bowen said. “It broke something inside her when you never returned. Maybe I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but I heard what you said to her. All this time and you finally show up only to tell her that you don’t want her? I’ve never disrespected an employer before, Mr. VanHorne, but you’re an asshole. Maybe if I hadn’t been so pissed at the way you just tossed her aside, I’d have stuck around long enough to catch her when she left.”
Bowen didn’t say another word, just turned and headed for the car. He opened the door and paused before getting into it. His gaze locked with mine and he seemed to be struggling with something.
“If you ever gave a shit about what happened to your wife, she’s at the hospital. Since I’m her bodyguard, and her husband has never been around, I’m listed as her emergency contact. Someone found her on the sidewalk outside the bakery this morning. She was unresponsive and the doctors…” He shook his head and got into the car, slamming the door.
Carmella was dying? I wasn’t sure which was more startling. That my wife had a brain tumor and had chosen to stop living, or the fact that she’d wanted me to come back for her. There was nearly thirty years between us and I’d thought I was doing her a favor by staying away. I’d known if I was anywhere near her, I wouldn’t be able to resist those sweet curves of hers. Even at eighteen, she’d been pure temptation for any man, me included.
Before Bowen could pull away from the house, I strode outside and got into the car. He didn’t even glance my way, just waited for the car door to shut, then stomped on the gas, sending the car rocketing down the drive and out the gates. A few turns made me wonder if he’d put the car on two wheels, but nothing was slowing him down. He flew into the hospital parking lot and barely took the time to shut off the car before running inside. I followed at a slightly slower pace and saw him frantically gesturing at the front desk.
Stepping up behind him, I caught the eye of the nurse. She gave me the once over, a smile spreading across her lips. The woman leaned forward, the V-neck of her scrubs exposing the edge of a lacy bra. Fucking hell.
“I need information on Carmella VanHorne,” I said.
The woman bit her lip and tapped at her keyboard, casting me glances that she probably thought were sexy. I was immune.
“I’m sorry, but Ms. VanHorne is only accepting family,” the nurse said.
I gave her the same look I’d given many men, right before I ended their lives. She blanched and glanced at Bowen, as if he might save her.
“For fuck’s sake,” he said. “Would you just tell the man where his wife is?”
She blinked a few times as if she couldn’t process the words. “Wife?”
I pulled out my wallet and flashed her my license. “I’m Casper VanHorne, and my wife, Carmella, was brought in after passing out in front of the bakery. Now, where the fuck is she?”
The woman frantically tapped at her keyboard, then scribbled something on a piece of paper. I took it, and saw she’d written down the room number and the doctor in charge of Carmella’s care. I turned to walk off, not bothering to thank her or even see if Bowen was still with me. The elevators weren’t far away and I pressed the up button. The damn thing took forever to reach the fifth floor but I easily found Carmella’s room. She looked so damn still lying in the bed, her eyes closed.
Her red hair was fanned across the pillow and I stared at it. When I’d married her, it had been a dark brown. I had to admit, I liked the red. I didn’t know when or why she’d colored it, but it didn’t matter. It seemed I’d fucked up by leaving her alone for so long. I’d thought it was the right thing to do. I needed her to wake up so we could have a little chat about her throwing her life away. Just because I was incapable of loving someone again, it didn’t mean she was unlovable or that no one would ever love her.
I sat on the edge of her bed and took her hand. It looked so small in mine. My memory flashed back to our wedding day. She’d worn a pretty white dress with blue embroidery, her hair down and shining in a cascade of curls. I’d kept reminding myself she was just a kid, but she’d been breathtaking. It was part of why I’d left her here alone. I’d had my one true love and my heart was no longer mine to give. Someone like Carmella deserved more than I could offer.
“Mr. VanHorne?” a voice asked from behind me.
I turned and assessed the man standing in the doorway. His badge said he was Dr. Peterson. He looked at me, expectantly, and I realized he was waiting for me to confirm my identity. There were bonuses to having a little work done here and there, lightening my hair and beard. It kept my enemies on their toes a little since they were expecting an old man. Instead of fifty-seven, I looked closer to my mid-forties. My face hadn’t really changed over the years. I might have some lines removed, and I’d admittedly had my nose altered a little five years ago, but for the most part I hated going under the knife if it wasn’t necessary. Plastic surgery was at least a once every five to ten years solution. Disguises had to be worn daily and were a pain in the fucking ass. If I wanted to keep my daughter and grandkids safe, then it was better that I change my appearance every so often.
“That’s me,” I said.
“Your wife’s condition has worsened. I’ve asked Mrs. VanHorne multiple times to accept treatment for her tumor, but she’s refused. I’m afraid it’s reached the point where we need to remove the mass. From the tests we’ve run, it’s non-cancerous, but it’s putting a lot of pressure on her brain as it grows.”
