Page 75 of Guarded Hearts

With a gasp, she surged upward and broke the surface of consciousness.

Dragging her eyelids open, she stared straight ahead of her. Where was she?

It rushed back in vivid, Technicolor detail. Just before she passed out from the medicine administered before anesthesia, she’d recognized her surgeon.

A client ofherclient’s. The New York interior designer had come to Layne for several art pieces and certain antiques for a prominent doctor’s home in Martha’s Vineyard.

As with most clients, she invited them to the Londons’ Manhattan showroom to browse what they had in stock and discuss more possibilities. When she met Dr. Patel, she hadn’t thought much about the man. He didn’t have any remarkable features or personality traits that stood out to her.

He was genial and well-mannered. After the first trip through the showroom, he thanked her and shook her hand. Nothing special.

Then he asked if he could return to leaf through the albums containing photos of the antiques and art they had in storage. He was knowledgeable enough about artists to know what he liked and had no problem paying for the pieces.

The third time he returned, he asked her out to a gallery opening in the city. In her business, she was good at dodgingmen and even the occasional bold female. After she thanked him for the kind offer, Patel had simply nodded, smiled and took his leave.

She never saw him again.

A chill rushed over her. The very night of the same gallery opening, she had been at the bar…and somebody she never caught sight of…had bought her a drink.

She sucked in a deep breath. Cool air flooded into her nose through an oxygen mask.

Confusion blasted out the rest of those cobwebs draped over her mind. She didn’t have much experience with hospitals, but this didn’t look anything like what she’d seen before she got knocked out.

She was staring at a wall painted in a rich green hue that matched the pines of Wyoming.

In the center of that wall hung a painting she recognized.

One she’d flown to France to personally procure from the dealer who had it in his private collection. An oil painting that she sold to Patel.

This definitely was not the hospital.

“You’re awake.”

The tenor of Patel’s voice made her blood freeze in her veins. Her heart flipped over and over again.

“Your heart rate is elevated. Breathe normally, Layne. It’s going to be all right.” His face loomed in front of her as he leaned over the bed and adjusted the sheet around her.

Oh god. She needed to get out of here. Away from this crazy man.

Her eyes rounded as she met his stare. What she saw in his eyes was slightly unhinged and sent more alarm pounding through her.

“Where am I?” Her demand came out as nothing more than a weak whisper.

The weight of a hand landed on her thigh. Her skin crawled at the touch.

“I brought you to my special surgical recovery room. Here, I can care for you. Personally.”

“I want Carson!”

He clucked his tongue and reached to adjust the mask over her face. “Just breathe, Layne. Deep, even breaths. Your surgery went very well, better than expected.”

Panic whipped through her brain. What happened to her while she was helpless? She sent out small feelers in her body, assessing every single body part. Her head—foggy. But they’d told her she had a concussion from the object that slammed into her head.

The object her stalker had planted in her barn.

“You planned all this!”

He dragged a stool on wheels over to her bedside and sat, gaze fixed on her face. “You and I are meant to be, Layne. All my efforts lined up better than I could have imagined. I got to fix you. Take care of you. Restore your beauty.” His pale blue eyes roamed over her face.

---