In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (18 page)

At 8:37 p.m., CST
, Patrick Tremayne stepped from his jet into a muggy, too-warm Louisiana night. He glanced up at the sky, wished it wasn’t drizzling, hunched down into the protection of his raincoat, and headed for the limo waiting for him. He nodded at the chauffeur, crawled into the comfort of the deep leather seats and settled himself in for the fifteen-mile trip to Bruce Lassiter’s clinic. A dry martini waited for him in the rack of the limo’s bar and he took a large gulp, then held the chilled glass to his forehead.

Tonight the bandages would come off. Tonight he would show his brother Jamie his future.

He took another gulp of the martini, draining the glass, and reached for the bottle of gin. His hand shook as he poured the booze into his glass. Some of the aromatic liquor dribbled onto his pants, but Patrick hardly noticed as he tipped up the glass.

He had other things on his mind.

Annie James had
gone to bed early feeling an overpowering need to sleep. But sleep had eluded her and she lay, staring at the ceiling, feeling the walls closing in on her, wishing with all her heart she could turn to the empty side of her bed and see Gabe’s smiling face, could wiggle toward him until she was safe in his warm arms. She ached for him, her body acutely aware of the month-long separation.

A single tear fell from her left eye and she angrily swiped it away. She flipped to her side, away from his side of the bed. Her eyes bore into the darkness, trying to see beyond the boundaries of wall and space and time. In her mind’s eye, she could see him. See him as he had been the night he had finally made love to her in the hotel in San Diego where they’d gone on their honeymoon.

“I’ve wanted to hold you like this for so long,” he had whispered as a soft, gentle ocean breeze had frothed the curtains into their room. He had nestled her head into his shoulder and had kissed her forehead. “I could hold you like this for the rest of my life.”

His lovemaking had been tender, almost reverent. Both of them had decided on waiting until their wedding night. Somehow they had each understood the waiting would make the final culmination of their love even more special, more unique. In an age when lovers tried out one another’s bodies long before it was proper or legally and morally sanctioned, Gabe had insisted they wait. He had respected her. She knew it had been more difficult on him than it had been on her, but wait they had. Until the moment was right. Until the moment was sure. Until the moment when they had, in the eyes of God and man, belonged to one another.

“Do you know how special you are, Gabriel James?” Annie remembered asking.

He’d shrugged. “I’m nothing special, Annie. I’m just in love.”

Now, two years later, she wondered if he was being special to the woman to whom he was legally bound. A woman who no longer wanted him, but refused to give him up.

Annie’s eyes went to the phone and the memory of the call she had made to Kristen Marie Tremayne came back to scald her.

“Hello?”

The voice had been soft with a little girl’s pitch, but the accent had been sultry, giving lie to the childish image the voice instilled.

“Mrs. Tremayne?”

“Yes.” There was politeness in the voice, a slight touch of confusion. “Who’s this, please?”

Annie had almost put down the receiver, but her heart had refused to let her. “Annie James, Mrs. Tremayne. Gabe’s wife.”

There was complete silence on the other end as though either shock or fury was building. She could hear the woman’s breathing, shallow and loud.

“Please don’t hang up on me,” Annie had begged. “I have to know how he is.”

The breathing continued even more loud and rapid.

“You don’t have to tell me where he is...”

“I don’t know where he is,” came the stiff, angry reply.

Annie had closed her eyes, squeezing them so tightly shut they hurt. Her hand had clutched the receiver, pressing it against her head until she could feel her ear stinging from the contact.

“Just tell me if he’s all right.” Tears flooded her eyes and slid down her hot cheeks. “Just tell me he isn’t being hurt.”

Silence played out along the wire. Annie could hear the faint beeps and chirps that sped along the miles of telephone line. She began to think the woman was going to hang up on her, but then the sultry voice, sharp with dislike and filled with contempt, hissed at her.

“I would imagine that wherever
my
husband is, Miss Cummings, he is being well taken care of. No one would dare harm the son of Liam Tremayne.”

Annie had not missed the use of her maiden name. “He was hurt once before.”

The drawl deepened. “There are those who would say he asked for what he got, Miss Cummings.”

“I was told you loved him. I thought you might—”

“Love him?” came the grating voice with a laugh. “Oh, I suppose I might once have loved Jamie, Miss Cummings. But he rather effectively killed that love when he took up with you!” The voice grew cold as ice. “Let me make something clear to you, bitch. I don’t care where he is, I don’t care who has him, and I don’t care what they might be doing to him. As far as I’m concerned, Jamie Tremayne can rot in hell!”

The line had gone dead. To anyone listening in on the conversation, they would have heard a woman’s angry voice. But Annie James had heard pain in the woman’s voice—the pain of betrayal.

A betrayal for which Kristen Marie Tremayne would make Gabe pay dearly.

Kristen put out
her cigarette and stood. She adjusted her skirt, fluffed her hair, and took up her umbrella. Smiling absently at the doorman, she walked past him into the rainy New Orleans night and waited until he had opened the door of the limo for her.

“Thank you, Edward,” she drawled as she allowed him to help her into the car. She nodded at the limo’s other passenger. “Good evening, Paddy.”

Patrick Tremayne looked away from his sister-in-law’s predatory face. “I trust you are well, Kristen.”

“Marvelous,” she answered. She crossed her legs and settled into the seat, put her left arm along the back of the seat and patted Patrick’s tense shoulder. “I got a call from Jamie’s whore.”

Patrick’s eyes widened and he slowly turned to face her. The smile on her face was evil, almost vicious. “What did she say?”

Kristen shrugged. “She wanted to know how her play pretty was.” She giggled. “If he was being hurt.”

Tremayne’s green eyes slid closed. “What did you tell her?”

“That I didn’t care if he rotted in hell.”

Opening his eyes and staring ahead of him at the back of his chauffeur’s head, Patrick didn’t answer. He didn’t think for a moment Kristen’s answer was the truth, but he didn’t feel like discussing the matter with her. As did his father, sister, and brother, Patrick detested the cheap woman sitting beside him.

“My line is tapped, you know,” Kristen sniffed.

“All our lines are tapped.”

“Not that it matters. Drew’s got it all under control.”

Patrick looked around at her. “You signed control of your father’s business over to Papa, didn’t you?”

Kristen flung out an impervious hand. “I didn’t want to be bothered with details.” Her face sobered. “But I do want to be there when Liam finds the men who killed Daddy.” Her eyes shone. “I want to pull the trigger on them myself.”

There was a moment of conscience which pricked at Patrick’s mind, but he nudged it away. He didn’t like Kristen. Jamie had been betrayed by the bitch, so what did it matter if she wasn’t long for this earth? It was only a matter of when and how she was eliminated. He turned his head and looked out the limo’s smoked windows.

“Will there be any scars?”

He looked around, surprised. “What?”

“On Jamie’s face,” Kristen answered in exasperation. “Will he be scarred?”

Patrick shook his head. “Some bruising and discoloration. Maybe a little swelling still. But once the stitches are out, he’ll heal quickly. He’ll never even know he’d been operated on.”

That wasn’t true, Patrick thought with a frown. Jamie would know every time he looked into the mirror.

“I can’t wait,” Kristen said gleefully, rubbing her hands together.

I can, Patrick thought with a sinking feeling. And I’m sure, so can Jamie.

The last bandage
was unwound from Jamie’s head. He heard Kristen’s sigh of what?—surprise?—pleasure?—shock?

“Now I’m going to take the pads off your eyes. Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them.”

He could feel the cool air on his face as the gauze came away from his flesh. It felt strange.

“Kristen, lower the lights please.”

The brightness beyond his closed lids darkened and he flinched as his brother’s cold fingers touched his cheekbone.

“It’s okay.” Patrick’s voice was soft, encouraging.

First one pad was peeled gently away, then the second. He heard Kristen grunt.

“Now, I want you to open your eyes very slowly. Just ease them open. There may be some blurriness at first, but your eyes will adjust. Don’t let it worry you.”

Very slowly, as though he were a flower budding, Jamie opened his eyes.

“My God,” Kristen said on a long breath.

Jamie flinched at her tone, his head going down, his eyes closing against the sound in her voice.

Patrick turned his head and glared at the woman. “You’ve seen what he looks like, Kristen. Now leave us alone.”

Kristen continued to stare at her husband. “You look... You’re...” She couldn’t find the words. Her entire body jumped when Patrick shouted at her.

“Get the hell out of here, Kristen!”

Kristen hurriedly left the room, slamming the door behind her.

For a long moment, Patrick said nothing, then Jamie felt his brother’s fingers on his chin lifting his head. He tried to keep Patrick from looking at him, but his brother’s hand was insistent.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Patrick said. “She just wasn’t expecting what she saw.” His palms slid to each side of Jamie’s face and he lifted his brother’s head. “You look fine, Jamie. Really, you do.”

Jamie searched his brother’s eyes, looking for the truth of those words, wanting to see it written there, aching, needing, desperately needing, to see it written there. What he saw was compassion, tinged with guilt, filled with sorrow.

Patrick pulled Jamie forward, brought his brother’s head to his shoulder and slid his arms around him. “You’re going to be all right, Jamie. I promise you will.” He held his brother tightly against him.

“Mirror.”

Patrick squeezed his eyes shut. “Not right now. There’s still swelling. I’ve got to unpack your nose.”

“Mirror.”

It didn’t hurt Jamie to talk anymore. He’d been speaking when spoken to for over two weeks. He’d been stunned at the grating, smoky voice that had come from his own mouth the first time he had answered Dr. Lassiter’s questions, so he had refused to talk unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn’t like the sound of his voice. It made him acutely aware of just how much he had lost in the last month.

“Jamie, let’s wait awhile, okay?” Patrick said, easing his brother back. “Give yourself time to adjust to the way you feel. I didn’t butcher you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You know I wouldn’t have mutilated my own brother’s face, don’t you?”

“Please.” One word at a time, Jamie thought. If I speak just one word at a time, it doesn’t sound so bad.

Patrick shook his head. “I don’t think—”

“I have to see,” Jamie insisted, wincing at that horrible voice issuing from his lips.

Patrick shook his head. “I’d rather you didn’t. Not right now.”

Jamie’s chin trembled. “Is it that bad?”

Patrick moaned, swinging his head away from his brother. He closed his eyes, then buried his face in his hands. He began to cry.

Jamie took a long, wavering breath. He looked around, spied the mirror over the wash basin in the operatory and stood, his weak legs wobbling beneath him. They’d only been allowing him to walk for a little less than a week. Before that, he’d still been strapped to his bed, fed by his nurses, washed by the orderlies. He felt lightheaded as he stood there.

The drugs flowing through his system: the haloperidol, secobarbital, librium, and whatever else they kept him doped up with made him weak and made his head ache. At times, he was so nauseous he couldn’t eat. Sometimes he was so lightheaded he almost passed out. Straining to hold on, he stepped around Patrick’s chair and walked on unsteady legs to the mirror.

Patrick watched as Jamie made his way to the mirror.

Sometimes the drugs they forced into his defenseless system made him confused. Sometimes he hallucinated and imagined things that weren’t really there. They depressed him, made him acutely afraid of those in power around him. Sometimes he fainted, sometimes he went into mild convulsions. The powerful combinations of tranquilizers and barbiturates caused unexpected reactions to occur in him. He was always weak, always detached, always dizzy. His mouth was continually dry, his hands seemed to tremble all the time. Most of the adverse side effects which plagued him weren’t all that bad, but the confusion and hallucinations were.