His Sugar Baby (11 page)

Dr. Richards shook his head. He looked gravely back at her. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, Cathy. There is no easy way to tell you this. The chemotherapy regimen hasn’t been as successful as we hoped. Chloe’s condition has started to deteriorate again.”

Cathy felt the bottom fall out of her. The familiar crushing feeling slammed into her chest. She fought to remain upright in the chair. She worked her throat, struggling to force words out. “What—what are you saying?” she whispered hoarsely.

“I’m saying that Chloe is not responding as most children do to the treatment,” said Dr. Richards heavily but with infinite gentleness. “The leukemia has not been arrested. In her case, the chemo has only given her a short reprieve.”

Cathy sucked in a strangled breath. “What do we—what do we do now?”

“We can try a hematopoietic stem-cell transplantation. It’s a medical procedure that collects stem cells from the peripheral blood rather than from the bone marrow of a donor. It provides a bigger graft and doesn’t require the donor to be subjected to general anesthesia like the traditional bone marrow transplant.”

“I–I see.” Cathy tried to strengthen her shaking voice. “And this will help Chloe? Will it cure her?”

“I can’t promise you that. But the possibility is there.” Dr. Richard shook his head. He sighed then said earnestly, “I won’t soft-peddle this for you, Cathy. It’s a risky procedure with many possible complications. It’s reserved only for patients with life-threatening diseases. But for Chloe, it is definitely our last and best recourse.”

“Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do,” Cathy said firmly. She balled her hands in her lap, her nails biting crescents into her palms.

Dr. Richards regarded her for a long moment. His gaze flickered down to her clenched fists then moved back up to fasten on her face. “Cathy. You’re a strong woman. You’ve had to be. So I won’t hide the truth from you. With hematopoietic stem cell transplantation, Chloe may well experience a full remission. However, if the transplanted cells reject her body tissues, she may develop GVHD.”

“GVHD? What is that?”

“Graft-versus-host disease is an inflammatory disease that can occur if the transplanted cells do not accept the body. It typically occurs in the first three months after transplantation and is often fatal. It is treated with high-dose corticosteroids such as prednisone, but this immuno-suppressive treatment often leads to deadly infections.” He paused, and with obvious reluctance, said, “If this happens, Chloe may well die.”

Trapped between a rock and a hard place. Either or. So what else is new?

Cathy gave a short, brittle laugh. “Life or death. Those are the same options that you’ve been giving me for more than two years!” she said bitterly.

Dr. Richards regarded her with sharpening concern. He reached over to place a wide hand gently on her rigid forearm. “Cathy, I’m sorry. More sorry than I can say.”

Cathy abruptly realized that she was breathing harshly through her open mouth. She caught herself up, willing her self-control back into place. She straightened her spine. “No, Dr. Richards, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. I know that you’re doing everything that you can and that you’ve brought in other specialists for consultation. I’m just–just tired.”

“You still aren’t sleeping, are you?” When she started to speak, he threw up his hand. “I’m not going to ask you again to get that prescription filled. I know you won’t do it. But what I will urge you to do is to get someone to come stay with you awhile. You need rest, and you need emotional support. You can’t expect to keep going it alone like this, Cathy.”

Cathy shook her head. Despite her stiff face, she managed a flickering smile. “I’m fine.”

Dr. Richards blew out his cheeks, his frustration obvious. He shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “I wish you wouldn’t be so stubborn, Cathy.”

“This isn’t about me. It can’t be about me.
Ever.
This is about Chloe,” Cathy said fiercely. “I want to do the transplantation as soon as possible, Dr. Richards. I can take off work tomorrow and…”

Dr. Richards eased away from her. There was infinite pity in his expression. “I’m sorry, Cathy. You’re not a good candidate for Chloe. The donor must have a tissue type that matches the recipient. The leukocyte antigens, or HLS, in your blood type aren’t compatible.”

Cathy swallowed. She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. An anvil was crushing her ribs, putting unbearable pressure on her fluttering heart.

Dr. Richards went on to explain the situation in technical detail. She didn’t understand everything that he said, but she understood enough. The oncologist’s voice droned on, just a buzz in her ears, drowned out by her inner anguish.

There was a gathering roar in her ears. Her vision darkened.
I will not faint! I will not!
Cathy blinked furiously. She deliberately dug her nails into her palms. With the bite of pain, her vision cleared, and she could hear again. She still couldn’t draw a decent breath, but the awful pressure had eased.

“We’re looking at our database now for an appropriate candidate. I will let you know when we find one. In the meantime, you might want to ask family members, especially siblings, if they would be willing to be tested as suitable donors.” Dr. Richards paused to consider her for a long moment, before he proceeded reluctantly. “You’ve told me about Chloe’s father. However, in a situation such as this, you might think seriously about getting in touch him.”

Cathy gave a single abbreviated nod. Her nostrils flared as she tried to suck in more air. All that she could think, all that she could feel, was the searing pain of her failure. When it mattered the most, she had failed her daughter.

The oncologist waited for a long moment for her to respond to what he had told her. When she remained mute, he sighed. “I know it’s a lot to take in all at once. I will let you think about everything now. You will probably have questions later, after you’ve had an opportunity to adjust to what I’ve told you. Please don’t hesitate to call me at any time, Cathy.”

Cathy jerked another nod. She sat as though turned to stone. She was barely aware when the oncologist got to his feet or even that he briefly pressed his hand against her tense shoulder before he walked swiftly out of the waiting room.

A fresh tsunami of despair and terror crashed down over her. She started to hyperventilate again. This time she couldn’t catch her breath. Panic battered her. She was drowning, being sucked down into swirling black depths.

Winter’s phone rang.

Chapter Nine

The metallic tones cut through the whirlpool threatening to drown her. Her mind clutched hold of the spar of sound, pulling her free of the maelstrom.

Cathy gasped, sucking in a shuddering lungful of air. Her heart hammered in her ears, her skin was clammy, and she felt nauseous. But she was breathing.

Her hands shaking, she pulled the cell out of her purse and flipped it open. “H–hello? No—no, I’m fine. Just a frog in my throat.”

Cathy bent forward, her head bowed as she pressed the phone tightly to her ear. All of her attention was riveted on Michael’s deep voice, using it as a lifeline. She nodded even though he couldn’t see her. “Yes. Okay. An hour, then.” She closed the cell and slipped it back into her purse. Almost blindly, she got up from the chair. She walked mechanically out of the waiting room.

* * * *

Michael stepped back from the door to let her into the house. He hadn’t been certain that she would actually show up. At sight of her, he felt the bunched muscles in his shoulders ease. “Thank you for coming, Winter.”

Winter walked in and paused in the entry. She was dressed much as she had been when he first met her, so she had probably just left work. She was wearing a slim suit and pumps. Her hair was confined in the chignon that she favored. She appeared very put together, very professional and untouchable.

She nodded acknowledgement of his greeting, but she did not smile. Her eyes did not lift to meet his gaze.

Michael narrowed his eyes, trying to gauge her attitude. There was a distant expression on her face, coupled with a blank, shuttered look in her eyes and stiffness in her manner. It was obvious to him that she wasn’t sure that she had done the right thing in agreeing to see him. He guessed that she was still set on breaking it off with him. He lifted a hand and rubbed at the tightening across the back of his neck.

He gestured politely toward the living area. “Please come in. Would you like a drink?” She walked past him. He strolled after her, watching the sway of her rounded hips. He grimaced when he felt the blood rushing to his groin. He was going to have to curb himself. Just because she had shown up didn’t mean that he still didn’t have damage control to do.

“Yes. Yes, I would.” For the first time since her arrival, a measure of animation came into her expression. A hint of color tinged her pale cheeks. She went to sit down in one of the overstuffed armchairs. In her lap, she clasped and unclasped her hands. As Michael observed her, he interpreted the unconscious gestures as a sign of nervousness. “I’d like a scotch.”

Michael was taken by surprise. He had never known her to drink anything stronger than a good wine. Frowning slightly, he mixed a watered-down scotch for her before pouring his own drink. He didn’t want her drunk. Picking up the drinks, he went over to offer the glass. She accepted it without as much as a glance upward at him in thanks. That was completely unlike her, he thought. She was always scrupulously polite.

Michael felt his gut tighten. He turned away to sit down in the armchair opposite her. He rolled the shot glass between his hands, not really interested in the liquor. However, he noticed that Winter gulped hers down. His brows jerked together. He wondered if she was fortifying herself with a little Dutch courage so that she could deliver the
coup de grace
to their relationship. It was an unwelcome thought. Feeling unnaturally pressured, Michael hurried into speech. “I had time during my trip to think about some things. Namely, what happened after the ballet premier.”

Her head shot up. For the first time since she had walked in, she looked at him directly. He couldn’t read the expression in her eyes. He didn’t like that.

Her lips parted.

Michael threw up his hand, hoping to stop her from speaking until he could get out everything that he wanted to say. “Please, Winter, hear me out. I want to apologize for placing you into an uncomfortable situation. It was both insensitive and selfish on my part.” He set his untouched glass on the side table before he got to his feet and crossed over to her.

He crouched down beside the armchair and gently reached out for the hand that wasn’t holding the shot glass. Peripherally, he noticed how cold her fingers were. She did not pull away but instead just looked at him over the edge of her glass. Her beautiful hazel eyes still had that shuttered look. He couldn’t begin to guess what might be going through her mind, but he suspected that he had only one shot at getting this right.

Michael raised her unresisting hand to his lips and brushed a kiss across her soft knuckles. Over their clasped hands, he held her unfathomable gaze with his own. Quietly, he said, “Forgive me, Winter. I won’t push you into anything that you don’t want again, I promise.”

She did pull against his fingers then. He released her at once, feeling a sharp shaft of disappointment. He had come as close to begging as he ever had, but apparently it was not enough.
She’s going to walk.
He thrust aside his faltering dismay and forced himself to remain still under her slow examination of his face. He didn’t know what arguments he could bring, but he was going to try his damnedest to change her mind. He didn’t want to lose what he had found with her. It was too good. “Winter, please listen to me—”

The distant expression in her eyes did not change. Winter turned her head from him. With deliberation, she set the shot glass down on the side table. When she turned back to him, she reached up to touch his jaw with cold fingertips. When she spoke, her voice was strangely ragged. “Take me to bed, Michael. Please.”

He was completely blown away. He didn’t know why making peace with her had been so easy. He didn’t care. He was just glad.

Michael stood up, reaching down his hand to her. When she put her slender fingers in his, he pulled her to her feet and into his arms. He lowered his head, his mouth seeking hers. He only meant to taste her before they headed upstairs. But when she pressed the soft curves of her luscious body urgently against him, he ignited. His cock went instantly hard. His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer. As he deepened the kiss, her lips parted under his open mouth. He gave an inarticulate groan. He plundered her warm, sweet mouth with his tongue. She tasted of scotch and herself. She met his hunger with hers, his passion with her own.

They never made it upstairs to the bed.

He tumbled her down on the thick rug in front of the empty fireplace. He barely remembered the condom in his pocket, and he got it out with shaking hands. She was already unzipping his jeans, reaching inside to find him. Her fingers closed on his aching shaft and pulled it free. The zipper tines scraped the sensitive sides of his penis. He hissed at her ungentle touch.

He knocked her hands away so he could sheath himself. They were in too much haste to completely undress, their clothes parting where necessary with their feverish struggles. Her skirt was wound up around her hips, her panties around one ankle. His jeans and briefs were shoved down only as far as his knees.