Hell on Heels (3 page)

Evan's voice was dangerously soft, his words slow and overartic-ulated. “I placed that ring on your finger, Monica. You have exactly ten seconds to put it back on.”

“Or what?”

His eyes turned to ice, and his mouth compressed. “Don't challenge me, Mon. You'll be sorry if you do.”

“You know, I believe this trip to Vegas might be just what I need.” Abandoning the folders sitting on her desk, Monica continued packing up her laptop.

“Put the ring back on.”

Monica snatched her purse out of her desk drawer.

“You're making the biggest fucking mistake of your life.”

“Really?” She shouldered her purse. “At the moment, it feels like my biggest mistake was
accepting
your proposal.”

“Is that so? Well, sweetheart, if you walk out that door, I can promise there'll be nothing left for you to come back to.”

She paused. His threat was real enough. He owned a managing share of the firm and even her apartment building. One word from Evan could mean both termination and eviction. On top of that, he could destroy her credibility and her career, but she'd be damned before she'd let him bully her. She was Tom Brandt's daughter, after all.

“You presume a lot, Evan.” Forcing her lips into a smile, she met his glower with her own steely stare. “Who says I intend to come back at all?”

 

R
ed-eyed and restless, Ty paced the corridors of Desert Springs Medical Center. Guilt and concern weighted his shoulders into an uncharacteristic slump. Why the hell hadn't he recognized what was happening? He'd been too damned preoccupied with himself. That's why.

Tom had collapsed in the parking lot right in front of him only moments after they'd exited the restaurant. Earlier he'd mistaken Tom's slight slur and sloppy smile to alcohol, not knowing until later that Tom hadn't imbibed anything stronger than mineral water.

With his heart in his throat, Ty had made the 9-1-1 call, only to stand by completely helpless until the first responders hauled Tom off in an ambulance. Everything that ensued was just a blur. The only thing he knew was that the man who'd been like a father to him had nearly died before his eyes. The thought shook him to the core.

It was late. A number of nurses and support staff flitted from room to room like bees in a hive, but none paid him any heed. “Please, ma'am,” he inquired of the lone secretary staffing the nurse's station. “I've been waiting here for hours. Can you tell me any news about Tom Brandt?”

“Are you family?” She sized him up and down. Standing six four without the boots, he was used to that.

“Not exactly. I'm a close friend. My name's Ty Morgan. I was with Tom when it happened.”

“I'm very sorry, Mr. Morgan, but only family members are allowed in the critical care units.”

Ty set his jaw. “If you're asking me to leave, you're gonna have to call security to drag my ass outta here. I'm not going anywhere until I know what's happening with Tom.”

“Again, I apologize, but I can't give you any details without his daughter's permission.”

“Has anyone been in touch with her yet?”

“Yes. Dr. Chen spoke to her earlier. She's on her way.”

He was glad to know Monica was flying in, but she was coming all the way from New York. Although his bond with Tom was as strong as blood, only Monica was his true kin. There was no denying that. He just hoped to God Tom held on until she arrived.

“Isn't there anything you
can
tell me? Tom's one of my oldest friends. Hell, he's more like a father to me.” Tom had stepped in the very day his own ol' man had passed on over twenty years ago.

“I really do want to help you, Mr. Morgan—”

“
Ty
,” he corrected.

“—but I'm afraid I have to abide by patient confidentially laws. You'll just have to wait until Ms. Brandt arrives.”

Although Ty was growing increasingly frustrated, he still knew charm would serve him far better than antagonism. “C'mon, Sugar,” he cajoled with his best wanna-get-you-in-the-sack smile, “Can't you at least tell me what the doc told
her
?”

She shook her head with a softer, more sympathetic look. “You know I can't repeat that conversation. You really should go home and get some rest.”

“Can't you at least tell me if he's likely to make it through the night?”

“I believe his condition's stable.”

He doffed his hat and clawed a hand though his hair. “I guess that's
something
, anyway. Is there anyplace I can just sit and wait it out?”

“I'm afraid there's only the emergency waiting room. But there's nothing you can do for him.” She laid a hand on his arm. “You
really
should go home. Ms. Brandt probably won't arrive until morning anyway.”

He shook his head. “There's no point. I ain't gonna sleep a wink.”

“What if I promise to give you a call the moment she arrives?”

He glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. He really was dead on his feet, but he was terrified that something might happen to Tom in his absence. Then again, the hospital was only ten minutes from the hotel. He could just crash there tonight. He practically lived there anyway. “Do you swear it?” Ty asked.

“Cross my heart.” She made a big, slow “x” over her left breast.

He couldn't help following the motion. If you looked beyond the shapeless hospital scrubs, she wasn't half bad—redheaded and a bit on the heavy side, but Ty liked redheads and full-figured women. He liked lean and mean brunettes too. Hell, he liked most any shape and size—especially when they were moaning beneath him.

“All right.” He heaved a sigh of defeat. “I s'pose I'm only wearing out my boot soles pacing the floors. You've been most obliging,”—his gaze flickered discreetly to her name tag—“Holly. Is there anything I can do to return the favor?”

She sank her teeth into her lower lip. The action drew attention to her mouth. His gaze lingered there briefly. She had a slight overbite. It was kinda sexy. She also had nice full lips. The kind that encouraged illicit thoughts. “How about dinner sometime?” she asked.

He'd seen that look often enough to know that more than dinner was on offer. It was half the reason he'd never trade in his hat and boots for a business suit.

“Would love to take you out, sweetheart, but I'm afraid I'll have to rain-check you until Tom is out of the woods,” he answered regretfully.

“I understand, but take my number just in case.” She scrawled it on a Post-it note and handed it to him. “You can call anytime.”

“Thank you, Holly. I'll do that real soon.” Ty tipped his hat and headed to the elevator, shaking his head.
Damn.
That was
twice
in one day he'd passed up a chance to get laid. He'd have to dedicate serious attention to his neglected sex life as soon as things settled back down. But right now Tom was all that mattered.

 

As Monica stepped outside the baggage claim area, the desert heat swept over her in a suffocating wave. She impatiently scanned the line of vehicles for her ride, sighting the Lexus limo waiting for her curbside. She flagged the chauffeur holding the sign with her name. He pulled forward and opened her door. “Ms. Brandt?”

“Yes. I'm Monica Brandt.”

“Where are you staying?” He asked as he stashed her bags in the trunk.

“The MGM Skylofts, but I need to go straight to Desert Springs Medical Center.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Brandt.”

Monica gazed sightlessly out the window as the driver whisked her away from the airport. She was still seriously rattled about her split with Evan. It was a shock how he'd turned on her like a viper. Her remark about not returning was purely blowing smoke. She had too much of herself invested in New York ever to walk away. She'd been in Manhattan all of her adult life and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. She feared the repercussions if he actually carried out his threats.

She hoped they were just a juvenile tantrum for not getting his way and that the trouble would all blow over in a few days. She was counting on that anyway. She pushed her anxiety about Evan from her mind. She refused to think about it anymore when she had more than enough to worry her with Tom.

 

Though she'd steeled herself for the worst, nothing could have prepared Monica for the sight of her once-vibrant father lying gray and insensible in the hospital bed. With his laughing eyes and cowboy swagger, Tom had always appeared larger than life to her. Now he seemed barely alive.

Holding his cold, limp hand, she listened through a filter of fog as various members of the medical team detailed Tom's prognosis and treatment plan. Her fingers tightened convulsively as her mind registered “permanent impairment to his cognitive and speech centers.”

“What are you saying?” she asked the doctor in growing despair. “Please speak plainly.”

“It could still be days before he gains consciousness,” Dr. Chen replied, “but even then he probably won't be able to talk. The MRI shows extensive damage to the speech center of his brain.”

Monica's throat constricted as the words sank in. “Are you saying he'll
never
recover?”

Dr. Chen looked even graver. “I'm a believer in medical science, not miracles, Ms. Brandt. He's getting the very best care we can offer, and once he regains consciousness we'll begin a comprehensive rehabilitation program, but even with the best care, he's going to have permanent neurological impairment. It's impossible to predict the extent of the damage at this juncture, but you need to be aware that a full recovery is virtually impossible.”

Although she stubbornly refused to give up hope for Tom's recovery, Monica understood that she wouldn't be returning to New York anytime soon. As Tom's only family, she was legally and morally responsible for his health care. On top of that, she'd have to assume responsibility for all of his business affairs. Her heart dropped into her stomach at the realization that she was stuck in Vegas for the long haul.

“Ms. Brandt?” Monica looked up to acknowledge the nurse who'd stepped into the room.

“There's a gentleman who'd like to speak with you. He says he's a close friend of your father.”

“Who is he?” Monica asked.

“Says his name is Ty Morgan.”

“Sure,” she murmured, puzzling over the name. It seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn't recall when she'd heard it. “I guess you can bring him back.”

A moment later, she blinked in surprise. When the nurse said a close friend of Tom's, she'd pictured a paunchy, middle-aged retiree in ugly plaid golf pants. What greeted her instead was a tall, lean, thirty-something extra from a spaghetti western. Her gaze traveled slowly over him, from the Stetson that topped his head to the boots on his feet. The only thing missing was a set of long and jangling spurs. Who was he, and what did he mean to Tom?

He removed his hat, revealing thick, sandy hair that needed a trim. “I'm guessing you're Monica.” His voice was a deep, velvety baritone with a hint of southern drawl. “I'm Ty. Ty Morgan.” He stepped toward her, closing his warm, heavily calloused hand over hers. “I've known your father since I was a kid.” He released her hand, his attention now riveted on the man in the bed. A look of deep concern etched his rugged face. “I was haunting the halls last night until they all but kicked me out, but they wouldn't tell me anything until you got here.”

“They were just doing their job.”

“Yeah. That's what they said, but it sure as hell wasn't much comfort. Can you tell me anything? What did the doc say? Is he going to make it?”

Monica drew a fortifying breath. She could barely process it herself, let alone regurgitate it all back. “He had a stroke with bleeding in his brain. The neurologist says he's going to have permanent speech impairment.”

Ty's tanned face paled before her eyes. He knelt beside Tom's bed, bowing his head on a string of mumbled words—she couldn't decide whether they were a curse or a prayer.

Monica covertly studied his profile—a strong nose, not overly large but definitely masculine, high cheekbones, and a chiseled jaw covered with beard shadow. Ty Morgan wasn't bad-looking in a rough-hewn kind of way. She wondered how he'd look clean-shaven and in a power suit—which simultaneously reminded her of Evan and her job in New York.

She shoved both thoughts to the back of her mind.

“Morgan.” Monica repeated softly. “As in Brandt Morgan Entertainment?”

“That's right.” Ty looked up, and she noticed his eyes for the first time—hazel, red-rimmed, and shadowed. Sleepless night? Heavy drinking? Maybe both. “My father and yours were once partners in a rodeo company.”

“Rodeo?” she repeated. “For real?”

“Yeah. But that was way back before Tom hit it big with oil.”

“How interesting. He never told me about that. I knew Tom came from western stock but didn't realize he was a genuine cowboy. I guess I always thought of him as more of a kinder and gentler J. R. Ewing.”

Ty laughed outright. “Kind and gentle? To his friends I guess that's true enough, but I promise you, ol' J. R. had nothing on Tom when dealing with adversaries. The man's made of steel.”

“So tell me about this rodeo company,” Monica asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Back in the day, my ol' man and yours produced all the big shows back in Oklahoma. When the national championship pulled out of Oklahoma City to relocate to Vegas, they gambled everything they had to stay in the game as contractors. They even bought a small hotel and casino on the north end of The Strip and used the surrounding land as their stockyards. Although they eventually lost the stock contract to bigger operations, they kept the hotel.”

“So where's your father now, Mr. Morgan?”

“Dead, ma'am. Since I was ten. Got gored by a Mexican fighting bull.”

Monica shuddered. “Your father was
gored by a bull
?”

“Yeah. He raised 'em and fought 'em professionally. They called him ‘Wild Will' Morgan.”

“But isn't bullfighting illegal?”

“It wasn't the kind of fighting they do in Spain and Mexico, though I think he probably did that more than a few times too, just to prove he could. I'm talking about the kind that protects cowboys in the rodeos. It's what he did for his living. It's what he loved, but bulls are dangerous animals, and Mexican fighting bulls are ultra-aggressive. He got careless and paid for it. Tom always felt somehow responsible and stepped in as a surrogate father to me. When my mother remarried, I moved out and went to work at Tom's ranch.”

“My father's a generous man. Sometimes to a fault.”