Indulgence (25 page)

“I feel better. You?” He rubbed his hands together and
straightened his suit jacket.

I swiped my hair off my face and neck. Oliver walked over
and caught it in his capable hands. He pulled a black elastic hair tie and
bobby pin out of his suit pocket and adeptly streaked his hands through my
hair. The calming motion of his fingers combing along my scalp soothed me,
reminded me that I was here. Still alive.

Oliver was not only my assistant, but also my best friend.
Technically, aside from my sister, my only true friend. Most people in my world
were there because of what I could do for them. Money brought out the leeches
in droves. I paid Oliver more than I paid my high-powered executives, but he
was worth every cent. Oliver never complained and was always there when I
needed him, day or night. He was the perfect man.

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” I tipped my head
back and smiled.

He leaned over and kissed my temple. “No, I don’t think you
have.” His grin was playful.

“Tell me about the man.”

Oliver fastened the severe ponytail low on the nape of my
neck. He spun a piece of the hair he left out around the elastic tie, hiding it
from sight, then slid the pin through the hair along my scalp, securing it in
place. I’m sure it looked flawless. He was incredible at styling me, buying my
suits, fixing my hair. The best I could do on my own was a blow-dry and a few
rounded curls when my hair was down. Growing up, I spent too much time hitting
the books and not enough time socializing with women to learn simple things,
such as styling one’s hair.

The only source I had for things that one would consider
“girly” was my sister, London. She was everything I wasn’t. She had
honey-colored skin and black hair, like our father, while I had pale skin and
blond hair, shared by our mother. We both had our father’s gray-blue eyes.
London wasn’t as big in business, but she was a very sought-after interior
designer who did very well for herself. Not as well as I had done; my financial
worth far exceeded that of my family’s, but it had never been a problem in our
relationship. London cared nothing for money, whereas the more money I had, the
more secure I felt.

“… and he owns the firm we contracted.” Oliver’s voice
brought me back from my thoughts.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He rolled his eyes. “I said his name is Hank Jensen. He owns
Jensen Construction.”

“Hank?” The name rolled off my tongue and ended with a sharp
click. It suited him.

“Yeah, Hank the Hunk,” Oliver laughed. “Look at the picture
from his badge entry photo.” He handed me the image. Though he looked handsome
in the photo, my memory of him was better, only tarnished by the pain I saw in
his eyes.

Oliver was right. The man was attractive, in a rugged
manly-man way. His hair was dark, full, and thick. Even white teeth stretched
into a forced smile. Subtle green eyes complimented his tanned skin. Made me
curious as to what color the skin was under the T-shirt he wore for the
picture. Would he have a hokey farmer’s tan?
I wondered if I would ever
know the answer to that question. Probably not.

“Where did you say Mr. Jensen was from?”

“Texas. It says here on his background check that he owns
several acres of land. According to Google Earth, it looks like a ranch. Oh,
color me pretty he’s a cowboy. I love cowboys!” Oliver fiddled with his phone
and flipped it over to show me a large green expanse of land.

“You love
men
.” I snaked the phone from his hands to
get a better look and was surprised by the beauty of the lush landscapes.
Ranches always seemed like they’d be full of dirt and cows, like in a western
movie featuring John Wayne, not something right out of
The Sound of Music
.
The land highlighted rolling green hills with more trees than could be counted
and a creek that ran alongside the property line.

“No. Correction my dear, I love
beautiful
men.
Cowboys make me tingle, though.” He fanned his hands in front of his face as if
he were having a hot flash.

“Did you get me the information I need to gain access to Mr.
Jensen? I have to know that he will be okay. Also, what did Legal say?”

“I can get you access, but it’s going to cost you.”

“Oliver, everyone has a price.” I grinned and looked at him
sideways. “What’s the price?”

“Well, on the way over I called the Dean of Medicine and
told her the situation, expressed your concern and your interest in the
patient’s well-being.”

“Get to the point, Ollie.”

“Alright, alright. You’re going to have to make a hefty
charitable donation.”

“Done. How much?”

“Well, they need some new machines … ”

“How much?” My patience was wearing thin and Oliver could
tell.

“One hundred.” He looked away and stiffened.

“Fine. Have my accountant cut the check. This man saved my
life …” My eyes started to tear up but I fended off the waterworks by standing
and adjusting my shoulders. “Who do we need to see?”

“Excuse me, Ms. Reynolds?” A redheaded woman in an ugly suit
that was too big for her petite frame approached us.

“Yes, I’m Ms. Reynolds. And you are?”

She held her hand out to shake mine. “Jane Maxwell, Dean of
Medicine. I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.” Her eyes were
warm and sincere. Then again, when you were about to be gifted one hundred
thousand dollars, a personal visit from the Dean could be expected.

I cut right to the point. “This is my assistant, Oliver. He
will be taking care of making a one-hundred-thousand-dollar donation on my
behalf.” There was no reason to waste time. Time that could be spent making
sure Hank Jensen survived.

“Oh, my! We can’t thank you enough.” Her eyes and smile
seemed proportionately large on her round face. “A gift of that size will do
wonders for our children’s oncology division.”

I looked over at Oliver, a questioning eyebrow pointed as
high as the sky. He looked away, face beet red. He had lied. The woman never
gave an amount to him by phone. Probably never mentioned a donation either. He
just wanted me to donate to the children’s ward. Oliver had been a leukemia
survivor as a child and was always dragging me to events related to cancer and
children. Sneaky.

“Happy to help, Ms. Maxwell. Now, if you could help me, I
want to know what’s going on with Hank Jensen? Can I see him?”

“He’s in surgery now, but I’ll take you up and ensure you’re
approved access to him when he’s in recovery. We couldn’t find any familial
contact information, and since your office seems to have more information than
we do, it only seems fitting you be granted access.” She winked at me then
turned on her heel. “Follow me.”

As we followed the Dean of Medicine, I leaned over and
whispered into Oliver’s ear, “You’re going to pay for that one.”

“I always do.” His smile widened and I shook my head in mock
indignation.

Once we were settled in the waiting room, I grilled Oliver
on Hank’s next of kin and tried to call the number on file. The phone rang
nonstop, with no answering machine picking up. In this day and age, I’d think
everyone on the planet had voicemail. Apparently not. I returned countless
emails from my smartphone and had Oliver cancel all my meetings for the day.

We spent three hours in the waiting room before the surgeon
approached us. He was suited from head to bootie-covered toes in medical
scrubs. Ms. Maxwell flanked his side.

“Ms. Reynolds? I’m Dr. Nicholls.”

I shook his hand. “How’s Mr. Jensen?” Worry wracked my tone,
making it sound as if my throat was laced with sandpaper.

“He’s doing very well. We were able to remove the pipe that
went through the connective tissue in his shoulder.”

“Oh my God. You mean the pipe went in one side of his body
and out the other?”

“To an extent, yes. We removed it. We were able to reattach
the tissues of his shoulder and stitch both the entry and exit wounds up
nicely. He’s been in recovery for the past thirty minutes. Should wake up any
time now.”

“So he’s going to be okay? What happens next?”

“He’ll need a good four-to-six weeks of recovery to let the
tissue heal properly, need to wear a sling to limit mobility. Then another six
weeks of physical therapy. We’ll have to check his stitches weekly for
infection. The bandage will need changing twice daily. He’s going to need help
over the first two weeks after he leaves the hospital.”

I closed my eyes, relieved. Oliver supported me as I said a
silent prayer, thanking God he survived. He was hurt, and would spend the next
weeks recovering, but he’d recover. That was the important thing. “I’ll make
sure he has around-the-clock care.”

Oliver pulled out his phone and stepped off to the side.
“Ms. Reynolds is going to need to hire a full–time, highly-skilled nurse … ” I
heard him talking softly as he walked out into the hall. Worth every penny, my
Ollie was.

“Can I see him?”

“Of course. He should awaken soon. I’ll take you to him.”

I waved at Oliver who followed a few paces behind us. The
Dean led us through a series of doors where machines beeped like a metronome,
keeping the pace of the healing process. The hospital held the sour odor of
disinfectant and vapor rub as we made our way through the halls. I pinched the
bridge of my nose to combat the stench. Hospitals reminded me of death.

Ms. Maxwell led me to a closed door. “Go on in. We haven’t
been able to reach any of his family.”

“Me either,” I confirmed. “If you do, please let me know.”

She nodded and then walked away. I entered the room while
Oliver took a seat just outside the door, phone still held to his ear.

The room was surprisingly large, but my eyes didn’t take in
much besides the man lying in the bed. His torso was bare, a thin blanket
folded at his waist. A large bandage covered his entire left shoulder.

I walked over to get a better look at my sleeping savior. He
was a giant: had to be well over six-feet tall, with thick, muscular arms,
broad shoulders, and washboard abs. My heart pounded as I took in every inch of
one of the most beautiful bodies I’d ever seen. No farmers tan. All smooth
golden skin.

Hank Jenson was a work of art. A smattering of dark hair
trailed down past his belly button, the rest hidden from view by the blanket.
In sleep, he looked kind, with chiseled features that could have graced any of
the big screens or modeling shoots my company managed. Surrounded by beautiful
people day-in and day-out in my line of work, I’d never met anyone who could
take my breath away. Until now.

I sat down in the chair next to his bed. Thoughts swam
through my head, replaying the day’s events. I reached across the bed and
tentatively clasped his hand. It wasn’t soft like the hands of a man used to
the finer things in life. Hank’s hands were those of a worker. A blue-collared
man who spent his days out in the sun, building things with his bare hands. I
felt the roughness of his callouses against my palm and a rush of adrenaline
shot down my spine.

This man saved my life.

Something tickled. It felt as though a feather glided up my
arm, starting at my wrist and ending at the crook of my elbow, then back down.
Felt nice. I tried to move. Pain exploded through my chest and forced a jagged
burst of air out my clenched teeth. Searing hot prickles licked across my body
and I groaned. The tickle stopped and a hand as soft as silk encased mine.
What
the hell?

“It’s okay, Hank. I’m here.” A woman’s voice registered in
my ears.

I turned my head toward the voice and opened my eyes. A
clouded figure stood at my bedside clutching my hand. The softened halo around
the form brightened and crisp edges appeared. My angel. Relief soothed its way
through every inch of me, coating the hurt a little. A wide smile split across
dry lips as things came into complete focus. Damn, the woman was beautiful.
Gray-blue eyes shone bright against the dark of her suit and pearl nature of
her pale skin. Her sculpted brows nit together as she studied me.

“Angel, my beautiful angel.” My voice came out raspy.
Confusion set in and I searched the space.
How did I get here? Why was she
at my bedside? Why was I in bed?
It was obvious from the white walls down
to the scratchy starched sheets that I was in a hospital room. I tried to
adjust my shoulders to relieve the heavy ache that weighed me down but fiery
pokers lanced even the tiniest movement.

She scampered over to a side table and returned with a pink
cup. With a straw held between her fingers she brought the plastic to my lips
and I drank eagerly. My throat was drier than the bales of hay I feed my
horses.

After I drank my fill, I watched as she fiddled with her
jacket, straightening wrinkles that didn’t exist. Her teeth bit down on the
pink of her bottom lip, and I felt my heart thud against my chest.

“What happened?” I remembered very little. My left wrist had
something tugging and pulling at the skin. I moved my right hand over to feel
it and realized there was an IV. I did a mental check of my body, starting at
my toes. They moved easy enough. My legs seemed heavier, and every last twinge
or slight movement of my upper body hurt. The pain was bad, but tolerable. It
wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t move. My left shoulder seemed to be the worst.
Kind of like a burned out hollow oak tree. It was still there but not in any
working order.

With caution, I moved the right one. It functioned without
problem, though still heavier than normal. Must be pumping drugs through that
IV. When I tried to move the left shoulder again it was as if all the nerves in
my body went on alert and rushed to that area to scream in unison. My teeth
clenched, holding back the groan dying to get out.