Listen to Your Heart - Fern Michaels [36]
“I don’t think so, Mr. Brouillette. Why do you ask?”
“I guess it’s your perfume I smell.”
The nurse laughed. “We aren’t allowed to wear perfume. I don’t smell anything. Are you sure it isn’t the hospital smell?”
“Those little white flowers that look like tiny bells,” Paul said, sniffing again.
“You must mean lilies of the valley. I have some in my flower garden. They smell wonderful. I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir. Sometimes a concussion strengthens the senses or possibly someone wearing perfume walked down the hall. That must be it. A visitor wearing perfume. Now, aren’t you glad we solved that little mystery? This isn’t going to hurt,” the nurse said as she strapped on the blood-pressure cuff to his upper arm. Paul was asleep before she nodded in satisfaction and proceeded to jot down the numbers on the chart at the end of his bed.
Jack Emery padded barefoot down the long flight of stairs and out to the kitchen, where he searched for coffee. When he saw the pot was empty and he would have to make his own, he groaned. While the coffee dripped he swigged down half a quart of ice-cold tomato juice, swearing he was never going to tie one on again. He’d had his share of hangovers during what he called his hellion years, but this one was the queen mother of hangovers. Damn! Those last two drinks were what had done him in. Since he couldn’t see his car in the driveway, that had to mean he had the good sense to take a taxi, or else one of his friends had dumped him off. What the hell had he been celebrating anyway? John Connors’s big promotion? Like he really cared if John Connors got promoted or not. It was just an excuse on his end to party a little too hearty. Well, that would be it for another six months.
Jack rubbed his temples. Today was going to be a recovery day. Thank God he owned his own company and didn’t have to report to some tight-assed, surly boss. Besides, there was something he was supposed to do today. What the hell was it? Yeah, yeah, he was supposed to pick up Zip. Where the hell was the piece of paper with the name and address? Pants pocket, jacket pocket? That meant he had to go upstairs to get it. Call ahead. It was always good to call ahead and set things up. That’s what he would do the minute he made his way upstairs. He finished off the tomato juice and a second cup of coffee. He didn’t feel one bit better. He started to feel worse when he looked at the clock and knew he wouldn’t be able to make his luncheon date with Marissa Gaffney no matter how hard he tried. Call now and get it over with.
His head pounding, he padded over to the phone and dialed the number from memory. “It’s Jack, Marissa. I’m sorry but I have to cancel lunch. The truth is, I’m dog-sitting. I have one hell of a hangover, and I don’t have a car at the moment. I’m staying at Paul’s house to watch Zip. I owed him a couple of favors. Listen, how about dinner tomorrow night instead? I’m sorry about lunch. Is dinner on or off? Call me.”
Jack groaned. Oh well, there are other fish in the sea. But not like Marissa. He knew he had some major sucking up to do, and he would do it because he didn’t want to lose her. Marissa was okay.
An hour later, his hair still damp from the shower, Jack got dressed in khaki shorts and a Polo T-shirt and open-toed sandals. He searched his trouser pockets as well as his jacket pockets for the address and phone number of Zip’s temporary guardian. There was no paper to be found. Somehow he must have lost it. Shit! Now what was he supposed to do? Paul would be fit to be tied.
Jack perched on the side of the bed, his head pounding as he dialed Paul’s private New York number. He cursed when he got his voice-mail. “Hey, good buddy, I hate to admit this but I lost Zip’s info. Can you call me here at the house and give me the number of the fat chick with the big feet? I’ll go right over there and pick him up. I’ll wait for your call. It’s eleven-thirty now.”
At four-thirty, his headache still with him, Jack called the main number of Brouillette Enterprises