In A Heartbeat
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Before You Go
Other Books for Kindle by Donna MacMeans
In A Heartbeat
Written By
Donna MacMeans
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright (c) December 2006 by Donna MacMeans
First published in 2006 by Samhain Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by electronic or mechanical means —except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission of the author.
Cover designed by Erin Dameron-Hill
For more information, please contact the author at
www.DonnaMacMeans.com
Prologue
“PERFECT.”
He slipped his hand over his freshly shaved chin. Smooth. Pure. Clean. Not a scar, not a nick. Tilting his head for a better view in the mirror, he noted the plastic bag stuffed with a blood-soaked blouse, mini-skirt, and lacy panties sliced to ribbons. A smile tugged at his lips. He’d always been good with a razor.
Behind him, a cheap motel room television blasted some early morning talk show. The loud volume was intended to mask his exit. No one would know he was gone until housekeeping checked the room. By then he’d have crossed the state line, long before anyone discovered a naked woman with her throat slit, slowly decomposing in the middle of a soybean field. Perfect.
He carefully dressed, then checked the room to make certain nothing incriminating remained behind. His hand lingered on the doorknob when the word “transplant” stopped him cold, then lured him back to the television.
“Dr. Lewis.” An attractive woman in a beige suit raised her brow at the man in a white lab coat. “Surely, you aren’t suggesting that memories are embedded in our vital organs like words on paper?”
“Well, I’m not certain about your analogy, but yes. There are documented cases.”
“Can you give us some examples?” she asked.
The doctor adjusted his glasses. “I know personally of a man who, after receiving a new heart, began dreaming of a woman named Martha.”
“There’s nothing unusual about a man dreaming about a woman.” She eased back in her chair, chuckling at her own wit.
“Yes, but this man didn’t know anyone named Martha.” The doctor leaned forward. “Martha, you see, was the fiancée of the heart donor. The recipient had no knowledge of the donor. The memories came from his new heart.”
“But that’s incredible,” the woman said, astonished. “Does that happen all the time?”
“No. But it happens enough to defy coincidence,” the doctor replied.
“And does this happen with other organs?”
The remaining interview was lost in the screaming of his brain. Cold fury built in his chest. The implication that a heart, a donated heart from a dead lifeless body, could remember the man responsible for its demise overrode all other considerations.
“Miranda, you bitch!” With a swing of his arm, he threw the plastic bag of clothes across the room, toppling a lamp and a glass of water.
“How can you do this to me?” he ranted. “I planned your murder to the most minuscule detail.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together as if lecturing her ghost. “It was unparalleled. Perfect.”
He paced the small room, stabbing his fingers through his hair. “You should have died faster. No one would have wanted your dead cold heart. You’d be dead and buried and that would be that.” He stopped in front of a full length mirror and yelled at his reflection. “You should have died faster!”
He sunk onto the bed, his head in his hands. Rocking slowly back and forth, he whispered to himself, calming the violent shaking in his body, quieting the laughter that rang in his ears.
“It’s okay. Ssh… She won’t talk from the grave. I can fix it. I’ll fix everything.” The rocking ceased, and he glanced to the mirror. “I’ll fix it. Like always.”
Chapter One
“SERIOUSLY, IT’S NOT a problem.” Angela raised her voice for the car phone as she guided her brother’s sleek white limousine under the portico of the downtown Hyatt. “I’m already here.”
“I really appreciate this, Angie.” The dispatcher’s voice filled the car. “I didn’t know who else to call with your brother out of town. Annie’s little girl was sick and I told her—”
“It’s okay, Ed,” Angie reassured him. “A sick little girl needs her mother.”
“That’s right. You would know with your transplant and all.”
Angie cringed behind the steering wheel. How could she ever experience life as a normal person if everyone knew about her heart transplant? Her family already treated her like a delicate piece of spun glass.
“What’s it like almost dying?” The voice asked over the phone. “Were you scared?”
Angie scowled at the intimate questions. In truth, she knew too many patients who died waiting for an organ donation. She’d come to terms with the likely probability of death. But life?
“Gotta go, Ed,” she said. “The client’s name is H.P. Renard the third, right? Rhymes with hard?”
She heard something like “yup” before ended the call. Showtime.
“Angel-face.” A grinning bellhop, several years her junior, hustled to her door. “Long time, no see. Where’s Stephen?”
She stepped out of the car, slipped on her chauffeur’s cap, and returned Brian’s wide smile. “He’s driving Mom to Florida. I’m filling in.”
“As you do so well.” Brian said with an appreciative once-over.
Angie felt the blush blossoming on her cheeks, mentally cursing the pale complexion that exposed each and every emotion.
The sudden swirl of the revolving door interrupted their conversation. Brian whistled low under his breath. Angela numbly nodded her head in agreement. She had thumbed through enough magazines during her convalescence to recognize a high fashion model when she saw one, even when the model shoved through a whirling door.
“How can you expect me to move to this cow town?” The model whined. “There’s no parties, no clubs. What am I supposed to do?”
“Quiet, Liz. You just got here,” her escort lightly scolded. “You haven’t given Columbus much of a chance.”
“Philip dear, can’t you just commute from New York? Just take one of those little planes and come home for the weekends.”
Angela held the limo’s door open, awed by the famous Elizabeth Everett. Stephen had often regaled the family with stories about the famous people who had ridden in one of his cars, but this was her first celebrity.
The model’s full-length mink coat flapped open, revealing a tall, willowy body wrapped in sensuous black silk. She towered over Angela, casting her a brief, bored appraisal before slipping elegantly into the limo’s dark interior. It happened so quickly, Angie forgot for a moment that the car was ordered for Renard, not Everett.
“I’m sorry, Mr…” She began, unsure how to politely insist the man remove his date from the car.
“Renard,” he supplied. Angela glanced up, surprised by eyes the color of sun-warmed slate. He radiated the self-confidence and calm control of a man accustomed to the finer things. Impeccably dressed in a tuxedo, he stood quietly assessing her. “You must forgive Elizabeth’s urban attitude. She’s not good with change.”
“Of course,” Angie mumbled, resisting the urge to moisten her suddenly dry lips. How had she missed noticing this drop-dead gorgeous man earlier? “Sir,” she added quickly. His air of authority demanded it even if he looked to be only a few years her senior.
He chuckled deep in this throat. A quiver flashed about her ribcage.
“Philip, come on. You’re letting the cold air in,” the model grumbled from inside the limo.
Angela’s short stature, together with her position behind the opened door, enabled her to see her passenger. The woman bent over a powdery substance sprinkled generously on the length of her raised finger. A moment later the substance was gone. Shocked, Angela quickly closed the door, barring Renard entrance.
“You and your date will have to find another ride, sir,” she said disgusted. “We don’t allow that kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” His brows lifted, a dimple flashed briefly before his gaze shifted to the closed door. “What are you talking about?”
“Drugs,” Angela hissed, keeping her voice low. “This may not be New York, but we have our standards.” She nodded toward Brian standing just inside the Hyatt entrance. “Brian can call you a cab.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, two dark slits that chilled her more than the cool September wind. He stepped around her, a deep forest scent following in his wake, then he yanked the limo door open.
“What the hell are you talking about?” His bulk filled the tiny doorway. “There are no drugs in here.” Straightening, he turned and faced Angela. “I don’t know what your game is, lady, but there are no drugs in that car. We’re running late for a dinner engagement. So if you don’t mind—”
“I do mind.” She stretched out all of her five foot four inches. “I know what I saw.”
The man’s glare worked like a battering ram. She braced back against the solid support of the limo door, wishing some of the steel would magically osmose into her trembling legs.
“You know I could have your job for this,” he threatened.
“Yes, sir,” she managed between tightly clenched teeth. No need to explain that this wasn’t her regular job.
Their gazes locked. Her knees weakened. If the issue was anything but drug use, she wasn’t sure she could hold her ground.
“Elizabeth,” he shouted, not breaking eye contact with Angela. “There’s been a change in plans. We’re taking a cab.”
“But Philip—”
“Don’t talk to me, Elizabeth. Just come.”
He turned and stormed back to the hotel entrance. The man’s tone made it clear he expected to be obeyed.
“So much for my big tip,” Angela murmured to the breeze that slapped her cheeks. She held the rear door as her famous passenger bolted from the backseat and chased after her date. Alone at the curb, Angie slumped against the car, bewildered and exhausted from the unexpected confrontation.
“Are you all right?” Brian walked briskly to the curb, casting a worried glance at her chest. “Should I call someone? Stephen?”
Angie rolled her eyes. “I’m fine, Brian. Just fine.” She slammed the door shut. “It’ll take more than threats from a pompous, New York, third-generation jackass to bother this heart of mine.” She yanked the chauffeur’s cap off her head, freeing her blonde hair.
Brian smiled and signaled for a cab. ”You might want to go before he…”
She nodded, then slipped into the driver’s seat. She told the phone to dial Stephen as she pulled away from the Hyatt. Better he heard the news from her than from her disgruntled client.
