Out of His League. Cathryn Parry
had been the head of a clique of girls who’d ruled the neighborhood. Maybe that had been her coping mechanism to their chaotic home life. Elizabeth had coped by hiding in the public library, doing her homework or looking at National Geographic magazines. She had skipped two grades and had been accepted at college in Boston at sixteen, which had been her escape, and from which she’d never gone back.
Elizabeth tapped her foot. This meeting was unnecessary. She could spend precious time—time she did not have, since she was on duty and had a case to prepare for—explaining to her sister why she could not drive Brandon a half hour to school, in the opposite direction, and then back again, cutting out of her job at the hospital to pick him up. It didn’t make logistical sense.
But Ashley’s mind was not logical or ordered. Elizabeth needed to cut to the heart of the matter for her.
“What’s really going on here?” Elizabeth asked quietly. “Why can’t you sit with Brandon through his tests and then take him to school as usual?”
Ashley stopped pacing. But Elizabeth stepped closer and noticed her sister’s body was twitching. Her skin seemed clammy, and she smelled like...
No. Oh, no.
Their mother drank, but to Elizabeth’s knowledge, her sister never had.
Elizabeth certainly never did. She didn’t chance touching the stuff. That behavior was common, she had read, in children of alcoholics.
“Ashley?”
“I...have an appointment with a counselor today,” her sister confessed.
“That’s...good.” It was excellent, in fact. That showed Ashley was taking charge in an appropriate manner. If Elizabeth had the time, she’d delve into the how and where...check out this counselor and offer her sister medical advice.
Elizabeth glanced at her watch. In another minute the surgical nurses would be paging her. “Ashley, I really need to get to my next patient.”
Ashley’s thin shoulders straightened. She’d lost weight, Elizabeth noticed. “I’m leaving Brandon with you at the hospital today.”
“That isn’t possible.” The emotional response was elevating her pulse, but Elizabeth willed it away. “I have a full schedule of surgeries.”
“I know. I already talked to a nurse about the emergency child care program for employees that you have here.”
“You did?” Elizabeth said drily.
“Lisbeth, here is his insurance card and hospital ID.” Ashley shoved the patient cards at her. Then she tightened her jacket around her as if to close the pain inside. “Please kiss Brandon for me.” Her voice wavered. “And tell that lady ‘thank you’ for watching him while you and I talk.”
“Ashley—”
“I have to go!”
Elizabeth watched, gaping, as her sister hurried away down the corridor.
“What time will you pick him up?” she called after her, but Ashley just waved her hand and disappeared around the corner.
Now what?
Elizabeth racked the logical side of her brain. Actually, her entire brain was logical. She dealt in facts, not “what if” flights of fancy.
Fact one: Brandon needed to be escorted to his appointment. Thank goodness for the aides in the child care department. Of course she would normally accompany Brandon herself, but a patient receiving scheduled wrist surgery needed her care as his anesthesiologist.
She quickly dropped off Brandon’s insurance cards at the Emergency Hospital Day Care, and then rushed back to her post.
On the way, she passed the post-op room where Jon Farell would be recovering.
She wanted to slow. She wanted to stop in and see how he was doing. Catch a glimpse of those ice-blue eyes.
He might be lucid by now, and she had embarrassed herself enough already. Nearly losing her reserve and showing tears in front of a patient—it was so uncalled-for, so unlike her normal personality that the entire event had been...ludicrous.
She was Dr. Elizabeth LaValley, and she did not drop her veil of privacy for anybody.
Not even for men with understanding eyes and pheromones that smelled like heaven to her.
* * *
IN JON’S DREAM, he was sitting in a room, brightly lit by white light, on one side of a conference table. On the other side was a kindly, older man who looked familiar but who Jon couldn’t recall ever meeting. Max, his agent, was there, too, but he wasn’t speaking, he was just listening.
Jon seemed to be having an earnest conversation; he was telling the man what he was doing in baseball. He was trying to explain why it was imperative that he be allowed to continue.
“I’m not ready to stop,” Jon told the man. “I still have so much to do.”
He said a lot more to the man, too, but as soon as Jon spoke the words, he seemed to forget what he’d just said. He was trying to concentrate, but it wasn’t possible.
“I understand you,” the man said, something Jon clearly remembered. “It’s time to get serious.”
Yes! Jon understood exactly what he meant. He’d been coasting for too long. If he worked harder, he would be allowed to continue playing pro ball. He would not have to stop this life that he loved so much.
It’s time to get serious.
The thought filled him with hope. Even Max seemed to agree.
When Jon woke, his heart was pounding, the dream fresh on his mind. He knew exactly where he was. Inside a brightly lit recovery room. He felt groggy, his throat sore, his nonpitching hand numb. He looked down and saw it was bound in a thick bandage.
He tried to sit up, but nausea swept over him. He put his head back down. All of a sudden, he heard a child’s voice whisper next to him, “You’re Jon Farell!”
The nurse hustled over and bundled the child off.
Jon turned his head right, then left. “Where’s Lizzy?” he asked thickly.
“Lizzy? Is she the woman in the waiting area who keeps asking about you?” the nurse asked. “I told her that as soon as you eat some crackers and drink some ginger ale, we can call the doctor and get his okay to sign you out.”
“No. I want Lizzy. My...other doctor.”
“Dr. LaValley? She’s presently administering to a patient in surgery.”
“I need to see her. Elizabeth...LaValley,” he enunciated as best he could, but his words were slurring.
“That’s my aunt!” a voice piped up. It was the kid. The boy who’d recognized Jon.
“Brandon,” the nurse said to the boy, “you know you’re supposed to be in the day care center.” She picked up her telephone and made a call.
“Leave him,” Jon muttered weakly. He still felt so...sluggish yet full of purpose. He supposed dreams did that to people.
No, not a dream, a vision. And it was so clear. He had to get out of here. Had to get started.
The kid trotted over to his gurney. Jon blinked at him. Whatever medication they’d pumped him full of, he would be shaky for a while. He squinted, concentrating as hard as he could.
The kid was about eight, Jon estimated, with sandy hair and those sneakers kids wore that lit up when they walked. He shrugged out of his backpack and grabbed for a pen.
“Can I get your autograph?” the kid asked. He was missing one of his front eyeteeth.
Or maybe Jon was hallucinating. “How do you know who I am?”
“Everybody knows Jon Farell. You have twelve