Fatal Tide - Iris Johansen [7]
And this was supposed to be Lontana's foster daughter? Lontana was in his sixties and this woman was maybe mid-twenties. Of course, it was possible. But it was just as likely that the designation was a way of avoiding questions about a May-December relationship.
It didn't make any difference what she had been to him. The only important thing was that the relationship was long-standing and intimate enough that the woman would be able to tell him what he needed to know. If she did know, then there was no question he would make very sure she told him.
He leaned back in his chair and waited for her to wake.
Jesus, her head hurt.
Drugs? No, they'd stopped giving her drugs when she'd stopped fighting. She cautiously opened her eyes. No lacy fretwork, she realized with relief. Cool blue walls, cool as the sea. Crisp white sheet covering her. A hospital?
“You must be thirsty. Would you like some water?”
A man's voice. It could be a doctor or nurse. . . . Her gaze flew to the man sitting in the chair next to the bed.
“Easy, I'm not offering you poison.” He smiled. “Only a glass of water.”
He wasn't a doctor. He was wearing jeans and a linen shirt with cuffs rolled to the elbow, and he was somehow . . . familiar. “Where am I?”
“St. Catherine's Hospital.” He held the glass to her lips as she drank. She gazed warily at him over the rim. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, somewhere in his thirties, and wore confidence with the same casualness as he did his clothes. If she had met him before, she would definitely have remembered him.
“What happened?”
“You don't remember?”
The ship splintering, hurling chunks of deck and metal into the air.
“Phil!” She jerked upright in bed. Phil had been in that inferno. Phil had been— She tried to swing her legs to the floor. “He was there. I have to— He went below and he was—”
“Lie down.” He was pushing her back onto the pillows. “There's nothing you can do. The ship was destroyed over twenty-four hours ago. The coast guard hasn't given up looking yet. If he's alive, they'll find him.”
Twenty-four hours. She gazed at him dazedly. “They didn't find him?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“They can't give up. Don't let them give up.”
“I won't. Will you go back to sleep now? The nurses are going to kick me out if they think I've upset you. I just thought you should know. I have an idea you're like me. You want to know the truth even if it hurts.”
“Phil . . .” She closed her eyes as pain washed over her. “Hurts. I wish I could cry.”
“Then do it.”
“I can't. I haven't—I can't ever— Go away. I don't want anyone to see me like this.”
“But I've already seen you. So I think I'll just stick around and make sure you're going to be okay.”
She opened her eyes and studied him. Hard . . . so hard. “You don't care if I'm okay. Who the hell are you?”
“Jed Kelby.”
That's where she'd seen him. Newspapers, magazines, TV . . . “I should have known. The Golden Boy.”
“I used to hate that nickname and everything that went with it. It's one of the reasons I became so damn belligerent with the media.” He smiled. “But I got over it. I'm not a boy any longer. I'm a man. And I am what I am. You might find that what I am can be very useful to you.”
“Go away.”
He hesitated and then stood up. “I'll be back. In the meantime, I'll try to make sure the coast guard continues to look for Lontana.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome. Shall I ask the nurse to come in and give you a sedative?”
“No drugs! I don't take—”
“Fine. Whatever you say.”
She watched the door close behind him. He had been very agreeable, some might have even said kind. She was too hazy and hurting