to live. With chemo. Four months had already passed and she had decided on her own not to have chemotherapy. Single-handedly she had made the choice without him.
There would be no babies. They would not grow old together.
Shocked, Tyler had slumped into denial. He simply could not bring himself to accept the cruel diagnosis. The doctors had to be wrong. This could not be happening. Not to his young, beautiful, vibrant wife. She could beat it. She would live.
Yvette had handled the news with her usual quiet calm. She had always been spiritual and she turned deeper into her religion. Buying books such as this one that promised if you just prayed hard enough God would heal you.
Rubbish. Tyler jerked the book from the shelf and flung it across the room. It struck the wall with a resounding whack.
He’d lost whatever naive beliefs he’d ever held about miracles.
He was still angry, still very guilty. He should have detected her cancer himself. But no, he had been as useless as a third thumb, and even after the diagnosis he had been unable to do anything but sit idly by and watch her die. There was no greater torture for a physician. Because of his denial, he had never said the things that needed to be said, but he had brought her to the beach in the end, as she had wished.
It was hard for Tyler to come back here. He associated the beach house with her death and could not say why he hadn’t sold the place years ago.
It had been too late to save his wife. Maybe he wasn’t too late to save Jane Doe. Perhaps that was why fate had deposited her in his emergency room. He was a doctor, dammit. He should be able to save someone.
It frustrated him that the hospital laboratory had been unable to identify the toxic chemicals in Jane Doe’s car. Running his hands through his hair, Tyler paced. Over and over he tried to rationalize what he had seen this past evening. How one minute Jane had been broken and bleeding, hovering on the verge of death and later that night she had been in his car wolfing down a hamburger, her battered body completely healed.
There had to be a logical, rational explanation, and he would find it if he just looked long enough.
Then he remembered the symptoms she’d suffered when they were walking on the beach. Obviously, she wasn’t completely healed. And what about those lab reports? The ones that indicated she might have cancer?
The conundrum intrigued him almost as much as the lady herself. He had the strangest feeling she was faking her amnesia. But why? What was she hiding from him? Was she in trouble with the law? And how could he get her to trust him enough to give him the answer? She was a very private person and by her own admission, distrustful. Her remoteness evident in the way she held herself aloof, a little shy, as if she wasn’t quite sure how to react to people.
What was he going to do with her? What if her amnesia was real? He should report her case to the police but Tyler knew he wasn’t going to do that.
An odd excitement raced through him. A sensation of aliveness he hadn’t felt since Yvette’s death. If he could find out how Jane Doe had been healed, he might be able to heal others in the same manner. The possibilities were mind-boggling and flew in the face of all rational thought, but Tyler knew something miraculous had happened and he intended to find out exactly what it was.
Fingers trembling, Hannah called an operator and had her re-dial Marcus’ telephone number. She held her breath. It rang.
Once. Twice. Thrice. Four times.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the operator interrupted, “no one seems to be answering.”
“Please, could you let it ring longer? My friend was just there. We were cut off.”
The operator sighed as if Hannah had asked for the key to Fort Knox. “All right.”
More empty rings.
“Your party is simply not picking up.”
“Thank you.” Hannah cradled the receiver and sank against the wall.
What had happened to Marcus? Why had the line gone suddenly dead and why hadn’t he answered when she called back? Her imagination ran rampant as she imagined Daycon or one of his hired henchmen standing in Marcus’s bedroom with a gun pressed to his temple, making all kinds of awful threats. She shuddered. By calling him, had she inadvertently placed Marcus in mortal danger?
“What’s going on?”
Hannah jumped and clutched a hand to her chest. She had been so concerned about Marcus’s welfare that she hadn’t heard Tyler come into the room.
His dark eyes were disconcertingly intense, as if he knew exactly what she was hiding. Her stomach churned and for a moment she thought she might be sick.
“I…er…” she stammered, and gestured helplessly. She couldn’t explain anything to him without drawing him deeper into her problems. He was a nice man and didn’t deserve to be mixed up in this mess. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”
“Is there something you need to tell me?”
“No,” she whispered softly, surprised by the strange look in his deep chocolate eyes.
His gaze landed on hers. Hannah caught her breath. Try as she might, she couldn’t look away. He seemed intent on searching her soul, on getting answers to his questions.
“If you tell me the truth maybe I can help you.”
“Truth?”
“About those chemicals in your car.”
“I told you before that I don’t know anything about any chemicals.” She hated lying to him, but it was for his own safety.
“Jane, or whatever your name is, whether you realize it or not, you’re in serious trouble.” His tone of voice suggested he was saddened by her response and disappointed in her.
Hannah’s eyes widened. She hated to think that she had displeased him. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip despite the chill in the room. How did he know she was in trouble?
“Come here.” He extended his arms to her. “You look as if you could use a hug.”
“I’m all right.” Hannah shook her head and wrapped her arms around her chest. She wanted to hug him and yet she was afraid. Too many years of keeping her distance from people had held her in reserve.
Plus, she was afraid that if she ever let down her guard, even just a little bit, she would totally unravel and never be able to put herself back together again.
“Are you sure?” His eyes softened. “I’ve got broad shoulders just perfect for crying on.” There was such self-assurance in his voice. He had no clue that crying on his shoulders would not fix anything. He was a doctor, accustomed to performing miracles. How could he know her problems were far beyond his expertise?
She managed to return his smile in spite of her escalating anxiety. How easy it would be to step into his welcoming embrace, and yet how utterly hard. She fought against the attraction urging her to give in and accept his comfort. “I appreciate the offer.”
“It’s an open invitation.”
