a paint-splattered Jackson Pollock room with a series of framed paintings on the walls. Some were classics: melting Dali timepieces, a servant girl with a pearl earring, Tahitian women bathing by a stream. Others were by the not-yet-famous artists that she was showing in her Denver gallery. The corridor took on a more formal aspect, and it felt like she was on a personal tour of the Louvre Museum, accompanied by a grinning Mona Lisa.
Swiveling, she found herself surrounded by mist. Pink clouds spun like cotton candy around her feet and knees. When she tried to push them away, her left arm wouldn’t move. From shoulder to wrist, the arm was frozen. Pursing her lips, she blew, and the haze cleared.
Connor Gallagher strode toward her. This was the Manhattan version of Connor, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with a striped silk necktie. Though neatly groomed, his brown hair was unruly, curling over his collar. His cocoa-brown eyes penetrated her defenses.
She sighed as she placed this moment in time—a memory from several months ago when she had been trying to decide whether or not to file for divorce. She’d already left Manhattan, separated from Jamison and was working hard to establish a new life in Denver, her hometown. Connor had come all the way from New York to talk business with her. As soon as she saw him strolling up the sidewalk to her bungalow, she forgot about the contracts, documents and the prenuptial agreement she’d signed.
Connor filled her mind. She liked him...a lot. He frequently starred in her erotic fantasies. In real life, she hadn’t seen him without his swimming trunks, but she suspected he could give Michelangelo’s naked sculpture David a run for his money. In addition to her appreciation for his body, she was fascinated by his moods, the sound of his laughter and the shape of his mouth.
Her memory continued. They’d met. They’d hugged. He’d smelled warm and spicy like cinnamon. And then Connor had mentioned Jamison, asking if he also favored divorce.
She didn’t give a damn what Jamison Riggs wanted. Any love she’d had for him was over. She’d been living apart from him since the night when she’d found him in bed with the head partner from his Wall Street investment firm, a tall redhead with incredibly straight hair and who never smiled. Jamison had expected Emily to forgive him. He’d told her not to worry, that he was only trying to sleep his way to the top. As if that was supposed to be okay.
Emily huffed. She didn’t believe a single word that spilled from his lying lips. Other people had warned her about his cheating, and it didn’t take long for Emily to find evidence of other infidelities with at least three other women. Jamison had been having a wild, sexy ride. Frankly, when she asked Connor to come to Denver, she’d been hoping for a taste of the same.
Sure, there were plenty of legitimate business interests they could discuss, but those weren’t foremost in her mind. She wanted Connor to embrace her, caress her and sweep her off her feet. She deserved an affair of her own. But no! Technically, she was still married, and Connor had too much integrity to betray his friend, even if Jamison was a dirty dog who didn’t deserve the loyalty.
The day after Connor returned to his Manhattan law practice, she’d contacted a lawyer in Denver and started the paperwork. The divorce had taken months. So many other things had happened, a whirlwind of events.
Her unconscious mind played calliope music. Boop-boop-beedle-deedle-doop-doop. She was on a carousel, riding a painted pony. She hadn’t known Jamison was sick until he was terminal, and she only saw him once before he died. In light of his unexpected death, her divorce seemed cold and unfeeling. Even in a dream state, she felt a little bit guilty. If she’d known he was ill, she might have forgiven him and nursed him through his final days. Or not.
Leaving the merry-go-round, she hiked up a grassy knoll to an old-fashioned boot hill cemetery. She’d wanted to attend Jamison’s funeral and memorial service, but his maiden aunt Glenda, matriarch of the family, had made it clear that she was unwelcome. The family had kept her away, almost as though they were hiding something.
Jamison shouldn’t be her problem anymore. They were divorced, and he had died. But there seemed to be a connection. Her car had been run off the road after leaving the Riggses’ house. Someone wanted her dead, had tried to kill her. She had to fight back. She needed to wake up. Oh, God, I’m too tired.
Someone held her hand and comforted her. For now, that would have to be enough. She drifted back into silent stillness.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Connor sat beside the hospital bed and patted Emily’s right hand. She hadn’t moved, but one of the monitors started beeping. A sweet-faced nurse whose name tag said Darlene came into the room and made adjustments to silence the alarm.
“Has she spoken?” Darlene asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “But her eyelids have been moving. It’s like she’s watching a movie inside her head.”
“Rapid eye movement, we call it REM. Nothing to worry about,” she said in the perky tone of a confirmed optimist. “I’ll notify the doctor. We don’t want her to wake up too soon.”
“Why is that?”
“They use the induced coma to protect the brain and let it relax while the swelling goes down. She needs plenty of rest.”
Though he didn’t know much about neurological sciences, he’d talked to a brain surgeon in New York who advised him about Denver-based referrals. His brain surgeon friend had given him an idea of all the stuff that could go wrong, ranging from stroke to seizure. Amnesia was a possibility, as was epilepsy. Head wounds were unpredictable and could be devastating.
He wished he could be as cheerful as Darlene, but Connor was a realist. “It seems like she wants to wake up,” he said. “That’s a good sign, right?”
“Well, I certainly think so.” Nurse Darlene pressed her fingers across her mouth as if she’d said too much. “I’m not qualified to give opinions. But if you’re asking me, this young lady is going to make a full recovery and come back to you.”
And maybe she’ll bring the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus with her. Connor forced a smile. The nurse wanted him to be happy, but she really didn’t know—nobody knew, not for certain—if Emily would be all right. “Thank you, Darlene.”
She patted his shoulder on her way out of the room. “Try to get some sleep, Connor. If you need anything, push the button and I’ll be here in a flash.”
Sleep was an excellent idea, but he didn’t dare relax his vigilance; Deputy Sandoval had told him that Emily’s accident wasn’t an accident. Somebody had tried to kill her, and Connor needed to keep watch.
There was a lot to be done today. First order of business this morning would be to hire a private detective. He’d checked with the investigator who worked for his law firm in Manhattan and had got the name of a local guy. Though Connor didn’t doubt Sandoval’s competence, the young deputy might appreciate outside assistance from a PI—a guy who could do computer research and help him figure out why Emily had been targeted.
And Connor also needed to hire a bodyguard. The county sheriff and Aspen police didn’t have the manpower to provide a cop who could stand outside her hospital room and keep watch 24/7. Also, Connor wasn’t sure he trusted the locals. There was a high probability that the cops knew the Riggs family and wouldn’t consider them to be a threat, even if they strolled into her hospital room carrying two crossbows and a loaded gun.
He squeezed Emily’s hand and smoothed
