sob caught in her throat. At present, her life was unbearably lonely, and she longed for an end to this charade. Please, she prayed, let the FBI complete their investigation of the Texas Mafia soon. She wanted the case finished. She wanted an end to spying and trying to overhear conversations as she worked in the café and grill at the posh country club.
More than that, she wanted things that were probably never going to happen—a quiet life, the husband of her dreams, their children happily playing in the sun.
At the thought of home and family, she nearly gave in to her anger and grief. She was positive her own mother had died at the hands of a Mafia enforcer. She would help the FBI by finding out anything she could.
Straightening, she vowed to keep her word. Holding in the useless tears, she returned to work.
Later that afternoon, swimming laps in the community pool at Mission Ridge, Michael mused on the ill mob boss. Carmine Mercado had been dressed in an expensive suit. His manner had been arrogant, but with a certain Old World directness not without charm. It would certainly be interesting to have him as a patient.
Still smiling at a mental picture of him operating, with a bunch of thugs milling around the sterile room, all with tommy guns hidden under their green surgical scrubs, he went home, showered and shaved, then dressed in casual slacks and a blue shirt.
Rolling the sleeves up on his arms as he headed for the garage, his thoughts turned to the ordeal at hand. Susan Wainwright, at her age and level of health, would be an ideal candidate for a new heart.
He grinned with wicked humor. She’d be furious when she saw him at dinner tonight. The idea still amused him when he arrived at the Carson ranch, all 15,500 acres of it.
Susan heard the purr of an engine and knew Michael had arrived. She wished she hadn’t come, but Rose had asked her to help with the meal, since her morning sickness was acting up and apt to occur at any time of the day or night.
A funny ping went through Susan at the thought of a child. It wasn’t that she was jealous—Rose was the most wonderful sister one could imagine—it was just…
Okay, maybe she was envious, but only a little.
A heaviness swept over her spirits at the lie. This past year, as it became harder and harder to stick to her practice schedule, several truths had crept up on her.
First, dancing was hard work. Few lead ballerinas made it much past thirty, because the job was so hard on the knees and feet. She’d had no injuries in that department, but one never knew when it could happen. Besides, lately she was so tired all the time.
Second, she’d become aware of loneliness in her life. It didn’t seem as if she would ever find the one person meant for her, someone who would understand her drive as a dancer and let her live her life.
And third, she’d probably never have children.
Watching Rose and Matt, seeing the glow in their eyes for each other had awakened something inside her.
Envy, yes. But more than that. A longing for something she couldn’t exactly define.
A mate?
She grimaced. Most men she met didn’t take her career seriously at all. They didn’t seem to understand that she’d spent years getting where she was, that she’d started dance lessons when she was four years old. Twenty-three years of unrelenting effort. One couldn’t let up for a second and expect to remain at the top of the pyramid.
She’d expended just as much sweat equity in her career as most men had in theirs, and a heck of a lot more than some of them had.
“Hey, Michael.” She heard Matt call a greeting to the famous doctor. Her heart pounded furiously.
Arrogant ape, implying she was self-centered and bratty to cause her family concern over her condition.
It was her life, her body, her heart!
Only she could decide what to do about it. So far, she’d done fine, showing their family doctor and the cardiologist from her youth that she could make it with her “child-size” heart.
“The salad’s ready,” she announced.
Rose glanced up with a smile from the chocolate icing she was spreading over brownies. “Good. The potatoes are done. I turned the oven off. Josie, would you mind taking the steaks out to Matt? Oh, and see if Michael would like a glass of wine or iced tea rather than beer.”
“I don’t mind at all.” Josie smoothed the tablecloth and placed the crystal bowl of floating roses in the center.
Flynt’s wife, Josie, was also expecting. There must be a fecundity in the Texas air these days, Susan thought. Josie was a natural mother. Susan had watched her earlier with Baby Lena, who was asleep in the guest room at present.
“I’ll set the table,” Susan volunteered, shaking off thoughts of babies and such things. She felt a tad self-righteous about helping her sister. That should show the baboon she was as nice as anyone.
Except she wasn’t as nice as her big sister. Nor as beautiful. Rose, with her black hair, violet eyes and fair, delicate skin, was truly lovely. She had depth to her, a quietness within, as if she’d always known who she was and where she was going.
Susan sighed. She’d been something of a rebel, stubbornly packing off to Houston and trying out for a position with the ballet company in spite of her family’s conviction that she would never make it, that her health wouldn’t let her even if she had the talent.
She brightened. She had made it. But now her life’s passion was threatened. The dance company director had made it clear she couldn’t return without a clean bill of health.
Not only that, she wasn’t even allowed to drive. Her license was temporarily suspended due to her collapse, until a doctor determined that she was well enough to manage a car. It was simply too much.
“Hello, Susan,” Michael said in a deep voice that caused the tension level in the room to soar.
Although she’d been aware of him entering the house, unexpected tremors vibrated through her, like a string plucked carelessly and too hard by someone who was not a musician. She inhaled sharply, aware of the heightened pulse beating in her temple, and filled her senses with the scent of talc, men’s cologne and the freshness of the evening that clung to his powerful frame.
After placing the last plate on the table, she tossed a casual smile his way. “Nice to see you again.”
She’d be polite if it killed her. Rose didn’t need to be upset by strain between her and this overconfident surgeon. Needing to go between him and the table to return to the kitchen, she hesitated as she eyed the space.
He was about six inches taller than her five feet, eight inches. A perfect height for ballroom dancing, the thought came to her. She loved all forms of the art.
Meeting the intense blue of his eyes, she murmured, “Excuse me,” and waited for him to move out of her way.
He didn’t.
To her chagrin, he took her hand in his, then laid the fingertips of his other hand against her wrist.
