From the Heart (37 page)

“Terribly sorry.” Her head lolled a bit as she tilted it back
and tried to focus on him. “How rude of me to intercept a bullet with your name on it.”

“Don't get cute now,” he said between his teeth. “If you weren't bleeding, I swear, I'd deck you.” He wanted to hold her and was terrified she'd dissolve in his arms. His throat was dry from the rawness of his own breathing as he forced himself to treat her arm as an object, not part of her. When he'd finished binding the wound, Slade held her steady with one hand. “You probably saw that move on one of your stupid movies. Is that why you threw yourself at the gun?”

“No.” She felt as if she were floating as he started to lead her to a chair. “Actually, Sergeant, it was because I thought he would kill you. Since I'm in love with you, I couldn't allow that.”

He stopped dead at her words and stared down at her. When he opened his mouth to speak, he found he couldn't form a sound, much less a word. His hand dropped away from her uninjured arm.

“I'm really sorry,” Jessica said in a thick voice. “But I think I'm going to faint.”

The last thing she heard over the buzzing in her head was a stream of curses.

 

Jessica floated toward consciousness to a blur of white. She felt as though her body were drifting, apart from her mind. Even the steady throb in her shoulder seemed separate from her. The white dimmed to gray, then gradually lightened again until she focused on what was a wall. Perplexed, she stared at it.

With an interest dulled by medication, she shifted her gaze. All the walls were white, she noted. There were horizontal blinds at the window that showed hints of night between their slants. The blinds were white, too, as was the bandage around the arm that didn't feel like part of her. She remembered.

Letting out a sigh, she focused on a blue plastic pitcher and a clear plastic glass. Hospital, she thought with an absent grimace. She hated hospitals. A face bent over her, obscuring her line of vision. Amber eyes studied pale blue. They were nice enough eyes, she decided, in a round smooth face with a hint of jowl. She spotted the white coat and stethoscope.

“Doctor,” she said in a whispery voice that made her frown.

“Miss Winslow, how are you feeling?”

She thought about it seriously for a moment. “Like I've been shot.”

He gave a pleasant chuckle as he took her pulse. “A sensible answer,” he concluded. “You'll do.”

“How long . . .” She moistened dry lips and tried again. “How long have I been here?”

“Just over an hour.” Taking out a slim flashlight, he aimed the beam at her right eye, then her left.

“It feels like days.”

“The medication makes you sluggish. Any pain?”

“Just a throb—it doesn't feel like my arm.”

He smiled and patted her hand. “It's yours.”

“Slade. Where's Slade?”

His brow creased, then cleared. “The sergeant? He's spent most of his time pacing the corridors like a madman. He wouldn't wait in the lounge when I ordered him to.”

“He's better at giving orders.” Jessica lifted her head off the pillow, letting it fall back again when the room whirled around.

“Lie still,” he told her firmly. “You'll be spending a little time with us.”

The line appeared between her brows. “I don't like hospitals.”

He only patted her hand again. “A pity.”

“Let me see Slade,” she demanded in the best authoritative voice she could muster. Her eyelids threatened to droop and she forced them open. “Please,” she added.

“I don't think you take orders any better than he does.”

“No.” She managed a smile. “I don't.”

“I'll let him come in, a few minutes only.” Then, he thought as he studied her eyes, you'll sleep for the next twenty-four hours.

“Thanks.”

With an absent nod, he murmured something to the nurse who entered.

* * *

Slade paced up and down the hospital corridor. Dozens of thoughts, dozens of fears, raced through his mind. A headache pulsed behind his right temple. She'd been so pale—no, it was just shock, she'd be fine. She'd been unconscious through the ambulance ride. It was better that way—she might have been in pain. God, where was the doctor? If anything happened to her . . . His stomach convulsed again. Swallowing, Slade forced the muscles to relax, turned fear to anger. The headache spread to the back of his neck. If they didn't let him see her soon, he was going to . . .

“Sergeant?”

Whirling, Slade caught the doctor by the lapel of his coat. “Jess? How is she? I want to see her now. Can I take her home?”

Well versed in dealing with frantic spouses, parents, and lovers, the doctor spoke calmly without bothering to struggle out of the hold. “She's awake,” he said simply. “Why don't we sit down?”

Slade's fingers tightened. “Why?”

“Because I've been on my feet since eight o'clock this morning.” With a sigh, he decided it was best to treat this one standing up. “Miss Winslow is as well as can be expected.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it says,” the doctor returned evenly. “You did a good job of emergency first aid. As to your second question, you can see her in a moment, and no, you can't take her home. Does she have any family?”

Slade felt the color drain from his face. “Family? What do you mean family? The wound wasn't that bad, the bullet went clean through. I had her here inside a half hour.”

“You did very well,” the doctor told him. “I simply want to keep her here for a few days under observation. I need to know who to notify.”

“Observation?” Terrifying visions ran through his mind. “What's wrong with her?”

“To put it simply, exhaustion and shock. Would you like more complicated medical terms?”

Shaking his head, Slade released him and turned away. “No.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “That's all it is, then? She's going to be all right?”

“With rest and care. Now, her family?”

“There isn't anyone.” For lack of something to do with his hands, Slade stuck them in his pockets. A sensation of utter helplessness covered him, sapping the strength that tension and anger had given him. “I'll take the responsibility.”

“I know this is a police matter, Sergeant, but what exactly is your relationship to Miss Winslow?”

Slade gave a short laugh. “Baby sitter,” he muttered. “I'll take the responsibility,” he repeated with more force. “Call Commissioner Dodson, NYPD—he'll verify it.” Turning back, he fixed the doctor with a steady look. “I want to see her. Now.”

 

Jessica was watching the door when Slade opened it. Her lips curved. “I knew you'd find a way to get past the guards. Can you bust me out of this place?”

Keeping his hands in his pockets, he crossed to her. She was as white as the sheets she lay on. Only her eyes gave a hint of color. He thought of the first day he had seen her—vibrant, rushing. A feeling of total inadequacy swept over him so that the hands in his pockets balled into fists.

“How do you feel?”

“I told the doctor I felt like I'd been shot.” Gingerly, she touched the bandaged arm. “Actually I feel like I've drunk a half dozen martinis and fallen off a cliff.” She sighed, closing her eyes briefly. “You're not going to get me out of here, are you?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so.” Resigned, she opened her eyes again to stare at the blue plastic pitcher. “Slade, I lied about the diamonds. I tossed them under the seat in my car. It's in the middle of the road on the way to the shop. I forgot to get gas.” She looked at him then. “It's not even locked. And . . .” Jessica moistened her lips when he remained silent. “I gave Michael money to get away. That's accessory after the fact or something, isn't it? I suppose I'm in trouble.”

“I'll take care of it.”

Even through her drugged haze, she felt surprise. “Aren't you going to shout at me?”

“No.”

Fighting to keep her eyes open, Jessica laughed. “I'll have to get shot more often.” She held out a hand, not noticing his hesitation to take it. “David wasn't involved. Michael told me everything. David had no idea what was going on.”

“I know.”

“It seems I was half right,” she murmured.

“Jess . . .” Her hand felt so fragile. “I'm sorry.”

“What for?” Jessica found that it took much too much effort to keep her eyes open. The world was soft and gray when she closed them. She thought she felt his fingers lace with hers but couldn't be sure. “You didn't do anything.”

“No.” Slade looked down at her hand. It was limp now; he had only to release it for it to fall back on the bed. “That's what I'm sorry for.”

“It's all over now, isn't it, Slade?”

Her breathing was deep and even before he answered. “It's all over now, Jess.” Bending, he pressed his lips to hers, then walked away.

S
lade banked down the uncomfortable sensation of déjà vu as he waited in the commissioner's outer office. His scowl was a bit more pronounced than it had been the first time he had sat there. Three weeks had passed since he had left Jessica's bedside.

He'd gone directly back to her home on leaving the hospital. There, he'd had to deal with a puzzled, then furious, then frantic David.

“Shot, what do you mean
shot
!” Slade could still visualize the pale, strained look on David's face, still hear the trembling, angry words. “If you're a cop, why didn't you protect her?”

He'd had no answer for that. Slade had gone up to pack even as David had dialed the number of the hospital. Then he'd driven home, taking the miles to New York in a numbed weariness.

Slade had told himself to cross Jessica off, as he crossed off what he considered the final assignment in his police career. She'd get the care and the rest she needed. When she was ready to go home, the nightmare would be behind her. And so, he told himself, would he.

Then fatigue, the bone-deep exhaustion that comes after a long, intense period of tension, did the rest for him. He collapsed into bed and slept around the clock. But she had been the first thing in his mind when he woke.

He'd called the hospital daily, telling himself he was just tying up loose ends. The reports were always the same—resting comfortably. There were days when Slade had to fight the urge to get into his car and go back to her. Then she was released. He told himself that was the end of it.

Slade had plunged into an orgy of work. The novel was finished in a marathon sixteen-hour stint while he kept his door locked and his phone off the hook. With his resignation turned in, there were only a few necessary visits to the station house. More loose ends. He signed his contract and mailed his agent a copy of his second novel.

The reports and debriefings on the smuggling case brought Jessica back too vividly. Slade filled out his papers and answered questions with a brevity that bordered on curtness. He took the professional praise for his work in stony silence. He wanted it over—completed. He reminded himself that his life was his own for the first time in thirty-three years. But she wouldn't leave him alone.

She was there at night when he lay awake and restless. She was there in the afternoon when he poured his concentration into the outline of his next novel. She was there, always there, whether he walked the streets alone or surrounded himself with people.

He could see her on the beach, laughing, the wind grabbing at her hair as she tossed driftwood for the dog to chase. He could see her in the kitchen of the shop, slicing sandwiches while the sun dappled over her skin. Though he tried to block it out, he could hear the way she murmured his name when she lay in his arms, soft and warm and eager. Then he would see her white and unconscious—and her blood was on his hands.

The guilt would overwhelm him until he threw himself into work again, using the characters he developed to dilute her memory. But they all seemed to have pieces of her—a gesture, a phrase, an expression. How could he escape someone who seemed to know where he would run, how fast, and how far?

Now, sitting again in Dodson's outer office, Slade told himself this would be the end of it. He'd known all along that Dodson would want a personal meeting. Once it was done, all ties would be severed.

“Sergeant?”

He glanced up at the secretary, oblivious this time to the slow, inviting smile she sent him. Without a word, he rose to follow her into Dodson's office.

“Slade.” Dodson leaned back in his chair as Slade entered, then gave his secretary a brief nod. “No calls,” he ordered. “Have a seat.”

Silently, Slade obeyed while the commissioner sucked pleasurably on a cigar until the tip glowed. Smoke wafted to the ceiling in a spiraling column which Dodson watched with apparent fascination.

“So, congratulations are in order.” When Slade gave him nothing but the same silent stare, Dodson continued. “On your book,” he said. Absently, he fingered his small, scrolled tie pin. “We're sorry to lose you.” Saying nothing, Slade waited for the pleasantries to be over. “In any event”—Dodson leaned forward to tap his cigar ash—“your last case is wrapped up, by all accounts tightly. I don't doubt we'll get a conviction. You're aware that Michael Adams had made a full confession?”

He sent Slade an arch look and got no reply. “The domino theory seems to be working very well in this case—one name leads to another. As far as Chambers himself goes, we've got enough on him to put him away. Conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder, attempted murder—perhaps murder one on that business in Paris—not to mention the robberies and smuggling. No . . .” Dodson regarded the tip of his cigar with interest. “I don't think we need worry about him for quite some time.”

He waited for a full thirty seconds, then went on as if he were engaged in a two-way conversation. “You'll give your evidence, naturally, when the time comes, but it shouldn't interfere too much with your new career.”
Stubborn young fool,
he thought as he puffed on his cigar. He decided to test the younger man's iron control by saying a name. “Jessica told me she gave Michael several thousand dollars to aid in his escape.”

Watching for a reaction, he caught the faintest flicker in Slade's eyes—here then gone. It was all he needed to confirm the notion that had seeded in his mind when he had seen his
goddaughter. “She felt that made her an accessory. Strange, Michael never mentioned her giving him any money—and I spoke with him myself. There's a rumor that you saw him too, right after he was brought in . . . .” Dodson let the sentence trail off suggestively. When Slade didn't rise to the bait, Dodson went on, undaunted. He'd cracked a few tough eggs in his own career, on the street and behind a desk.

“I imagine a few choice words were sufficient to keep Michael quiet, and of course, Jessica can afford to lose a few thousand. We might have a bit of trouble keeping
her
quiet, though.” He smiled. “That conscience of hers, you know.”

“How is she?” The words were out before Slade could stop them. Though he swore under his breath, Dodson gave no sign of hearing.

“She's looking very well.” He swiveled gently in his chair. “I'll tell you, Slade, I was shaken when I visited her in the hospital. I've never known Jessica to be ill in her life, and . . . well, it was quite a shock.” Slade pulled out a cigarette, lighting a match with sharp, controlled violence. “She's bounced back,” the commissioner continued, pleased with the reaction. “Drove the doctor crazy until he'd let her out, then she went right back to work.

“That shop of hers.” He gave Slade a quick grin. “I don't suppose the notoriety will do her business any harm.” Noting the tension in the set of Slade's shoulders, Dodson paused long enough to tap out his cigar. “She speaks very highly of you.”

“Really?” Slade expelled a long stream of smoke. “My assignment was to keep her safe—I did a remarkably poor job of it.”

“She is safe,” Dodson corrected. “And as stubborn as ever. David and I both tried to persuade her to go to Europe, take a little time off to get her bearings. She won't hear of it.” He settled back in his chair as a faint smile flickered on his lips. “Says she's going to stay put.”

Slade's eyes flew from the view out the window to pin Dodson's. Emotions smoldered in them, fiercely, quickly, then were suppressed. “Hard to believe,” he managed. “She never did before.”

“So she tells me.” Dodson steeped his fingers. “She's given
me a full report—with a great many details you omitted from yours. Apparently,” Dodson commented as Slade narrowed his eyes, “you had your hands full.”

“Full enough,” Slade returned.

Dodson pursed his lips, in speculation or agreement, Slade couldn't tell. “Jessica seems to think she handled the entire business badly.”

“She handled it too well,” Slade disagreed in a mutter. “If she'd fallen apart, I could have gotten her out.”

“Yes, well . . . differing points of view, of course.” Dodson's gaze fell on the triple-framed photos of his wife and children. He'd had a few . . . differing points of view with that lady from time to time. He remembered the look in Jessica's eyes when she'd asked for Slade. “Of course, now that it's over,” he ventured, “I'm not entirely sure she won't fall apart—delayed reaction.”

Slade smothered the instant urge to protect and prevent. “She'll get through the aftermath all right. There're enough people in that house to take care of her.”

Dodson laughed. “That's usually the other way around. Half the time Jessica serves her staff. Of course, Betsy will cluck around her for a time until Jessica's ready to scream. And of course, Jessica won't. Betsy's been with her for twenty years. Then there's the cook, she's been there nearly as long. Makes great biscuits.” He paused reminiscently. “I guess it was about three years ago that Jessica picked up all her medical bills when she had a stroke. I suppose you saw old Joe, the gardener.”

Slade grunted, crushing out his cigarette. “He must be ninety years old.”

“Ninety-two if memory serves me. She doesn't have the heart to let him go, so she hires a young boy during the summer to do the heavy work. The little maid, Carol, is the daughter of her father's chauffeur. Jessica took her on when the girl's father died. That's Jessica.” He sighed gustily. “Loyal. Her loyalty's one of her most endearing traits and one of her most frustrating.” Now, Dodson concluded, was the time to drop the bomb. “She's hired a lawyer for Michael.”

This time the reaction was fast and furious. “She did
what
?”

While he lifted his hands, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness, Dodson struggled with a smile. “She tells me she feels it's her responsibility.”

“Just how does she come by that?” Slade demanded. His control deserted him so that he sprang up and paced the office.

“If he hadn't been working for her, he wouldn't have gotten tangled up in this mess . . . .” Dodson shrugged. “You know how her mind works as well as I do.”

“Yeah. When it works at all. Adams is the one who got her involved. He's responsible for everything that happened to her. She was nearly killed twice because he didn't have the spine to protect her.”

“Yes,” Dodson agreed quietly.
“He's
responsible.” The emphasis on the pronoun was slight, but full of meaning. Slade turned back at that. Dodson met his eyes with a look that was too understanding and too knowledgeable. He thought Slade looked like his father for a moment—impulsive, emotional, hot-headed. But Tom, Dodson mused, would never have been able to struggle with such turbulent feelings and win. Slade turned away from him again.

“If she wants to hire a lawyer for him,” he murmured, “that's her business. It's got nothing to do with me.”

“No?”

“Look, Commissioner.” On a spurt of fury, Slade whirled around. “I took the assignment, I finished the assignment. I've written my report and been debriefed. I've also turned in my resignation. I'm finished.”

Let's see how long you can convince yourself of that, Dodson mused. Smiling, he extended his hand. “Yes, as I said, we're sorry to lose you.”

 

The air smelled of snow when Slade climbed out of his car. He glanced up at the sky—no moon, no stars. There was a keen night wind that made low howling noises through the naked trees. He shifted his gaze to the house. Lights glowed here and there; in the parlor, in Jessica's bedroom. Even as he watched, the upstairs light winked out.

Maybe she's gone to bed, he thought, hunching his shoulders against the cold. I should go—I shouldn't even be
here. Even as he told himself so, he walked up the steps to the front door. He told himself he should turn around, get back in the car, and drive away. He cursed whatever demon had prompted him to make the trip in the first place. He lifted his hand to knock.

Before Slade's fist connected with the wood, the door flew open. He heard Jessica's breezy laugh, felt the quick brush of fur against his legs, then caught her as she raced out after Ulysses and collided with his chest.

Everything, everything he had tried to forget, came back to him in that one instant—the feel of her, the scent, the taste of her skin under his lips. Then Jessica tilted back her head and looked him fully in the face.

Her eyes were bright and alive, her skin flushed with laughter. As he stood tense, her lips curved for him in a smile that made his legs weak.

“Hello, Slade. I'm sorry, we almost knocked you flat.”

Her words were truer than she knew, he thought. Quickly he released her and took a step back. “You're going out?”

“Just for a run with Ulysses.” Jessica looked beyond his shoulder. “And he's gone now.” Looking back at Slade, Jessica offered her hand. “It's good to see you. Come in and have a drink.”

Warily, Slade stepped inside, but evaded the offered hand. She turned away to fling her jacket over the newel post, shutting her eyes tightly a moment when her back was to him. “Let's go in the parlor,” she said brightly when she faced him again. “There's a nice fire in there.”

Without waiting for his answer, Jessica dashed away. She was moving, Slade observed, at her usual speed. And the shadows were gone from under her eyes—gone as if they had never existed. She was as she had been in the beginning—a woman with boundless energy. He followed her more slowly into the parlor. She was already pouring Scotch into a glass.

“I'm so glad you came, the house is too quiet.” Jessica picked up a decanter of vermouth with no idea what was inside. As she poured she continued to talk. “It was wonderful for a few days, but now I almost regret that I sent everyone away. Of course, I had to lie to get them out of here.” You're talking too fast, too fast, she told herself, but couldn't stop. “I
told David and the staff I was going to Jamaica to lie in the sun for a week, then I bought them all airline tickets and shoved them out of the house.”