More Than Paradise (5 page)

For a while all three women lay in silence, their breathing gradually slowing down, then Karlah crawled off the bed and Ash heard bathroom sounds followed by a metallic rattle. She forced her eyes open as the bed sagged next to her. Karlah was sitting on the edge with a black doctor’s bag on her lap. From this, she pulled a strap and dildo and dropped them a few inches from Ash’s face.

“My turn,” she said brightly.

v

A couple of hours later, Ash extricated herself from a tangle of limbs.

“I should get going,” she said, sliding off the bed. It was almost two a.m.

Smiling through the mumbles of dissent, she gathered her clothes and boots and headed for the bathroom. Her legs felt like rubber and her head spun from hours of nonstop exertion. Strange, she thought as she stood beneath the jets of hot water, normally she couldn’t get away fast enough after an encounter and held off showering until she was back in her hotel. But knowing she wasn’t guilty of leaving a woman alone in bed after sex made her more at ease. Dani and Karlah had each other. They were lovers, she’d discovered as the night wore on, not just friends with beneÞ ts. She didn’t have to feel bad.

She was drying off when she became aware of a female voice she hadn’t heard before. Someone was angry. Ash couldn’t make out what was being said but she reached instinctively beneath the clothing she’d piled on a chair by the vanity. She always carried a handgun, even when

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MORE THAN PARADISE

she felt safe. Unclipping the Sig’s safety catch, she padded to the door and cracked it open just enough so she could see what was going on.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Dani shrilled. “You can’t order me around in my own home.”

“This is Tamsin Powell’s house and you are trespassing.” The reply ß owed like husky caramel. Ash craned to see who the startling voice belonged to—someone who should seriously consider phone sex as an occupation.

“Where’s Tamsin?” Dani snapped.

“Downstairs. She doesn’t want to see you.”

Ash’s neck prickled and her nipples tightened. Trying to fathom how any voice could affect her so much when she was this exhausted, she replayed it in her mind. Wry smokiness tempered with a sexy girlish lilt. The result—an awesome combination of Anne Bancroft and Marilyn Monroe. This woman could say anything and it would sound like verbal foreplay. Unfortunately she was out of sight, obscured by the open bedroom door. Ash imagined a Kim Basinger look-alike. Tall.

Classy. Unattainable. A real woman.

“I don’t know who you think you are.” Dani’s nasal whine seemed more pronounced all of a sudden, grating across Ash’s nerves. “But if Tamsin wants me out of here, she can tell me herself.”

“Listen carefully, both of you.” Softly spoken. Sexy as all hell.

Talk dirty,
Ash prayed.
Just once, please.
“Henry Powell is sending some of his security guys over. He got agitated when I explained the situation. And here’s the thing. Those guys, they’re not hired for their brains. Do you understand?”

A threat had never sounded so good.

Dani got louder. “What are you saying?”

“Put it this way. You have ten minutes to pack your things and get out. Tamsin doesn’t want blood on her carpet. The steam-cleaning chemicals bother her.”

Ash hovered indecisively in the doorway. She knew she ought to be gallant and rush to Dani’s defense, but from the sound of things Dani had created her own problems. Besides, life held so few surprises she wanted to make the most of this one. It didn’t sound like the woman calling the shots was armed with anything but her delicious arrogance and extraordinary vocal cords. Ash wanted to meet her. As in, yesterday.

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JENNIFER FULTON

Karlah belatedly piped up. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

“Dani,” the voice sensually invited, “perhaps you’d like to explain why you’re still living in the home of the partner you’ve been cheating on. Is this the other woman, or are you just slutting around with whoever?”

“Dani? What’s she talking about?” Karlah sounded genuinely shocked.

Dani was silent.

The unwelcome visitor knew she had won. Ash could tell from the silky satisfaction that entered her tone. “Shall I call the police and have you both arrested? Or do you want to take your chances with Henry’s boys? Dani, you know a good plastic surgeon, I’m sure.” A sigh. “Facial reconstruction…ouch.”

Whoever this sultry-spoken hardass was, Ash would pay to be intimidated by her. At the risk of making a poor Þ rst impression, she wished she could hang around for an introduction, but she didn’t like the way things seemed headed.
The police.
She pictured herself downtown trying to explain why she was on an Interpol watch list. Bad idea.

Silently she closed and locked the door, then headed for a bay of double-hung windows at the far end of the room. Cold air rushed at her face as she lifted one and peered down into the ß oodlit gardens below. It was maybe a twenty-foot drop. She’d handled worse without breaking an ankle.

Determined to get out before she could be sucked into someone else’s drama, she hurriedly Þ nished dressing and double-checked that she hadn’t left anything crucial behind. Like her car keys and wallet.

Someone thumped on the door and Karlah’s mufß ed voice begged,

“Ashley! Come out here!”

Ash thought she could make out the stranger’s response. “Oh, tell me this isn’t happening. There are
three
of you? No wonder this place smells like last week’s crotch stains. Someone hand me a sanitary wipe.”

Ash had to cover her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh out loud. An object crashed against a wall. Dani was throwing stuff, she surmised.

“Tell her to get up here right now,” the outraged blonde yelled.

“She can’t just throw me out.”

“Oh, but I can.”

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Ash could not believe how wet every word made her.
Get a grip
on yourself,
she thought and lifted the window all the way up, thankful that it was high enough and awkward enough to access that it didn’t have security locks. Hauling herself onto the ledge, she twisted and got her legs out, then scanned the grounds for the softest place to land. A strip of lush lawn looked promising. Even better, a huge pile of wood chips and leaf mold had been dumped near a ß ower bed, obviously part of some fall landscaping project before the snows came. Ash wasn’t sure if she could hurl herself far enough to hit the mound dead center, but it was worth a shot.

As the door-thumping grew more insistent and the handle started to rattle, she reß ected that this had been quite a night. Then she jumped.

• 37 •

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The Grove Nursing Home in Millbury, south of Worcester, was a converted mansion surrounded by charming gardens.

Residents could happily roam the manicured grounds within the safe conÞ nes of ten foot stone walls and 24/7 video monitoring.

Ash had chosen the place because anyone who could keep psychiatric patients inside as successfully as these people had the kind of security that also kept unwanted visitors out. At one time she’d been plagued by nightmares of her father breaking in and killing her younger sister. Her fears had not been completely baseless, but in hindsight, she could see they were a consequence of her own trauma more than a reß ection of reality.

Emma had witnessed the murder of their mother and had testiÞ ed at their father’s trial for the killing. Cartwright Evans had also been charged with attempted murder for his attack on Emma. These days he was serving a life term at MCI Cedar Junction. The last time Ash saw him, he was being led away after the judge had handed down her sentence.

His parting words were, “Your mother was a problem.”

Hers were, “Die slowly and rot in hell,” a prophetic sentiment given all she’d heard about conditions at Cedar Junction.

Occasionally letters from the maximum-security facility found their way, via mail redelivery, to her home in Madang. Requests for money. Complaints about brutal prison guards. Claims of life-threatening illness. Ash took pleasure in these self-serving communications because she liked to know her father was suffering. She shredded every last one without replying. The only time she ever planned to see him was if he

• 39 •

JENNIFER FULTON

appeared before a parole board. She would be there to make sure he stayed where he belonged. In a cage.

She slowed her rental Buick to a crawl and turned in to the parking lot behind the main building. It was pouring and she didn’t have an umbrella, so she looked for a spot near the entrance. An elderly couple was attempting to reverse out of the ideal location. After they’d almost backed under a Hummer, Ash got out of her car and stood in the torrential rain to guide them. Her shoulder ached as she waved her hand, and pain shot through the ankle she’d sprained leaping from the bathroom window. The injury made driving a problem so she’d skipped two of her daily visits out here.

After she parked, she dragged a box of chocolates out of the backseat, locked the car, and made a run for the entrance. The security guard on the door checked her ID and waved her into an elegant parlor redolent with the aroma of coffee and fresh-baked cookies. A couple of well-dressed city people sat awkwardly in tapestry-covered Victorian chairs. Ash suspected from their hushed conversation and darting glances that they were applying for an admission.

She knew exactly how they felt. After Emma’s neurologist at the McLean Hospital had recommended she remain in long-term care, Ash had been desperate to Þ nd the right environment. The Grove was afÞ liated with McLean and had a warm, old-fashioned feel. But its olde worlde façade disguised a state-of-the-art facility. There, Emma received the medical care she needed as well as long-term rehabilitation.

For a long while this had been paid for by the large insurance policy their mother left. Ash had often wondered if, knowing the man she had married, she’d also known how much she was at risk. The money had enabled the Þ nest care for Emma, and by the time it ran out Ash had left the military and was earning a salary that usually arrived bundled in suitcases. She had no problem paying the bills.

She gave her name to the receptionist and a few minutes later she was shown to an ofÞ ce that looked nothing like the front parlor. It was modern and functional, with art on the walls alongside backlit panels where X-rays could be displayed. At one end of the room an internal window provided a view of the room next door.

“You’ve redecorated,” she noted after shaking hands with Dr.

Winterton.

“Yes, and you have no idea how I’ve mourned that love seat.”

Ash grinned, a little surprised that such a busy man would have

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remembered their previous banter about the awful peach upholstery with the Cupid pattern. The sofa had been a legacy of his predecessor, whose tastes ran to pastels and sentimentality. Ash glanced around again. The walls were now a quiet shade of dove that looked good with the art and a new chrome and glass desk.

With a quick look at her bandaged ankle, Dr. Winterton said, “How is the world treating you, Ms. Evans?”

“With the contempt I deserve,” she answered lightly. “You look rested.”

“Blame my wife. She Þ nally divorced me.”

“Hell, I’m sorry.” Ash was startled by this lapse into the personal.

Normally Dr. Winterton was a closed book. She supposed people who had to hide unhappiness cut loose a little once the charade was over.

“Don’t be. We’re friends now.” He pinned up the usual diagrams and X-rays, signaling an end to their introductory pleasantries.

“I got your report,” Ash said. “Thank you for making time to see me during your week off.”

“There’ve been some developments,” he said. “That’s why I’m here today.”

Ash’s lungs froze against her heart. “I see.”

He came to the point by degrees. “Emma’s grand mal seizures have become more frequent and about an hour ago we believe she suffered a stroke. I’m sorry to be telling you this now. We tried your cell phone number as soon as we stabilized her.”

“I keep it off when I’m driving.” Ash felt dazed. “She’s only twenty-eight. How can she have a stroke?”

“Unfortunately her brain is not that of an average healthy person her age. As you know, the TBI left her with permanent frontal lobe damage and while we have achieved progress with her cognitive deÞ cits and behavioral issues, we are seeing a deterioration of her physical condition.”

“You’re saying she’s getting worse, not better?”

“In some important areas, yes. And the stroke is a serious concern.”

“What about decompression?” Ash felt embarrassed as soon as she’d asked. It wasn’t like Dr. Winterton and his team were sitting on their hands wondering what to try next and just hanging out for advice from a helicopter pilot. To spare him the need for a diplomatic reply, she said. “Dumb question. I’m sorry.”

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JENNIFER FULTON

“There are no dumb questions, Ms. Evans. I’m here to explain Emma’s condition and to talk with you about the options.”

“So…the deterioration. Does that have to do with the aneurysm from the original injuries?”

“I don’t think they’re directly related.”

“Then what’s happening?”

“Let me Þ rst say this.” He spoke gently. “Neurology is not a perfect science. The brain remains a mystery even to those of us who have devoted a lifetime to its study. In Emma’s case, some things are known, some things we can only guess at.”

Ash’s eyes ß ooded and she stared down at her hands. She had always envisioned a time when Emma would be well enough to leave the Grove and come live with her. She now had enough money invested that she could hire a full-time nursing team from New Zealand or Australia, semiretire, and work in the tourist sector somewhere like Thailand or Sri Lanka. Pilots were always in demand, especially those who weren’t fussy about the quality of their clientele.