Page 15 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

“You mean she’s heard our conversation?” Eugenia asked, an icy fear in her voice.

“I . . . I suppose so.”

Then there was a silence, as if they were looking at each other, maybe mouthing words of caution, or just exchanging knowing glances.

Marla slowly let her hand relax and heard soft footsteps sidle to the bed. “Marla?” Alex asked, gently. “Honey, can you hear me? Just move your hand, sweetheart. Let me know that you’re okay. God, I’ve missed you.”

He sounded so sincere. She wanted to believe him. Oh, God, she wanted to trust that he loved her. He picked up her hand and held it in his.

“Squeeze my finger if you can hear me, darling. Come on. Give it a try.”

Marla willed her fingers to move, but her hands were stiff, her muscles unable to bend or shift.

“I think . . . I think I felt something,” Alex said.

“Good. Oh, maybe she’s finally waking up.” Eugenia’s voice was closer. “Marla? Can you hear us, dear? Just nod, or open your eyes.” A pause. Marla couldn’t move, felt herself losing the frail hold she had on consciousness. “Honey . . . ?”

With a sigh of disgust, he let her hand fall onto the bed. “It’s no use.”

“Of course it is,” Eugenia said calmly. “We just have to be patient. She’ll come around.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Alex said coldly.

“Then . . . we’ll have to adjust. All of us. It’ll put a crimp on things, but it won’t be the end of the world. Don’t borrow trouble. You saw her hand move, felt her try to squeeze your hand. This is progress.”

“If you say so,” he grumbled, obviously disbelieving.

Bayview Hospital was one of the city’s finest, or so he’d been told, but as Nick walked down the carpeted hallways where recessed lighting played on copies of famous pieces of art, and nurses, doctors and aides hurried by at a clipped, professional pace, his skin crawled. He’d never liked the feel of a hospital. Any hospital. The odors of antiseptic, talc from the latex gloves, and disinfectant burned in his nostrils. Piped-in music, meant to be soothing, scraped against his nerves, and the smiles of patients, visitors and staff all seemed tarnished and false. In Nick’s opinion, not much good ever happened at a hospital. This one wouldn’t likely alter his position.

But he was here. Like it or not. And he was going to do his damned duty.

Gritting his teeth he made his way up in the elevator to room 505 and found the door slightly ajar. Soft music—an instrumental version of an old Beatles piece—played from hidden speakers in the corridor that was surprisingly empty of nurses, aides or visitors. But then maybe his brother had segregated this wing for his wife; after all he was some kind of muckety-muck on the board of this hospital. Samuel Cahill, then his son Alex after him, had donated enormous amounts of money to Bayview’s building fund, all through the Cahill Foundation. So, Alex could probably call the shots here when it came to his wife’s care. Just the way Alex liked it.

Nick pushed the door open to the darkened room where a patient, Marla, he presumed, was lying in a hospital bed. She was alone. Alex hadn’t shown up yet, but then, Nick was a few minutes early.

The room was pretty much standard. Polished metal bed rails reflected the dimmed illumination from a single fluorescent fixture recessed in the ceiling. An IV, like a thin sentinel, stood guard at her bedside, dripping glucose water and God-knew-what-else into her veins. Bouquets of cut flowers, boxes of candy, and potted plants gave splashes of color to the otherwise drab surroundings. Cards from well-wishers overflowed from a white wicker basket with a bright orange bow. Half-drawn blinds were slanted enough to cast shadowy stripes over the bed.

Gritting his teeth, Nick strode to the bed and felt like a damned intruder. Marla was lying on her back, her face bruised and swollen beyond recognition, her jaw wired. “Jesus,” he whispered.

This was Marla?

His gut clenched. He’d told himself he was long over her, that the anger and pain of her betrayal had been buried years before, but standing over her as he did now, he couldn’t help but feel a sliver of empathy for the pathetic creature who was his sister-in-law. Damn, she looked bad. Barely alive. Her head had been shaved on one side and there were visible stitches in the dark stubble.

His fingers curled over the rail. As he stared down at her he remembered the woman she’d once been, all the beauty and pure feminine allure that had been Marla Amhurst in that carefree time before she’d become Mrs. Alexander Cahill, before she ceased to be his lover and became his brother’s wife.

The memories he’d locked away were suddenly unleashed and recollections of a young, long-legged, flirty woman who oozed sex appeal and knew it, came to mind. God, she’d been intriguing, with mischievous green eyes, haughtily arched brows and cheekbones that wouldn’t quit.

Now she was reduced to this, a battered hospital patient, lying half-dead in a cold bed, hooked up to monitors and an IV, unaware of the world around her; a far cry from the woman who had snuggled under the rumpled covers of an iron bed in a cozy cottage in Mendicino and teasingly kissed the tip of his nose before giving him a naughty wink and slowly working her way downward.

“What happened?” he said, gripping the rails of the bed. “Damn it, Marla, what the hell happened?” Shaking his head, he dismissed his nostalgic memories. They were all lies anyway. She’d used him. Pure and simple. And he’d let her.

The damned thing of it was, he would probably do it again. In a heartbeat.

No matter how wretched she looked right now, in a drab cotton gown that she would have disdained as a rag, Nick had to remember the woman within. “How the hell did you end up here?” he whispered.

Behind her lids, her eyes moved.

Wasn’t she supposed to be in a coma? The hairs on the back of his neck rose. “Marla?” he whispered, his throat nearly closing on her name. “Marla?”

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