Stand-In Father (Intimate Moments)

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Authors: Pat Warren

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“Listen, just because you kissed me, that doesn’t change anything between us,”
 
Megan said.
 
Alex thought a moment, then answered. “You kissed me back. Heartily. Lengthily.”
 
Megan wished she could stop the blush she felt warming her cheeks. “All right, so it was a two-way street. The whole thing took me by surprise. Suddenly we were up close and...and it had been a long time since...” She cleared her throat. “At any rate, I shouldn’t have behaved like that. I’m not usually so...so...”
 
“Responsive? Passionate? Abandoned?”
 
Why in the world had she begun this conversation?
“No, I’m not any of those things,” Megan stated flatly. “I was acting out of character.”
 
Alex moved to sit next to her. “Don’t bother trying to convince me you’re not all of those things. Because I know.
 
“I’ve kissed you, and I know.”
Dear Reader,
 
Have you noticed our special look this month? I hope so, because it’s in honor of something pretty exciting: Intimate Moments’ 15th Anniversary. I’ve been here from the beginning, and it’s been a pretty exciting ride, so I hope you’ll join us for three months’ worth of celebratory reading. And any month that starts out with a new book by Marie Ferrarella has to be good. Pick up
Angus’s Lost Lady
; you won’t be disappointed. Take one beautiful amnesiac (the lost lady), introduce her to one hunky private detective who also happens to be a single dad (Angus), and you’ve got the recipe for one great romance. Don’t miss it.
 
Maggie Shayne continues her superselling miniseries THE TEXAS BRAND with
The Husband She Couldn’t Remember.
Ben Brand had just gotten over the loss of his wife and started to rebuild his life when...there she was! She wasn’t dead at all. Unfortunately, their problems were just beginning. Pat Warren’s
Stand-In Father
is a deeply emotional look at a man whose brush with death forces him to reconsider the way he approaches life—and deals with women. Carla Cassidy completes her SISTERS duet with
Reluctant Dad
, while Desire author Eileen Wilks makes the move into Intimate Moments this month with
The Virgin and the Outlaw.
Run, don’t walk, to your bookstore in search of this terrific debut. Finally, Debra Cowan’s back with
The Rescue of Jenna West,
her second book for the line.
 
Enjoy them all, and be sure to come back again next month for more of the best romantic reading around—right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
 
Yours,
Leslie J. Wainger
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
STAND-IN FATHER
PAT WARREN
Books by Pat Warren
Silhouette Intimate Moments
 
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#288
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Stand-In Father
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Love #442
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PAT WARREN,
mother of four, lives in Arizona with her travel-agent husband and a lazy white cat. She’s a former newspaper columnist whose lifetime dream was to become a novelist. A strong romantic streak, a sense of humor and a keen interest in developing relationships led her to try romance novels, with which she feels very much at home.
This book is dedicated to Dr. Beverly S. Tozer,
Internal Medicine, one of the most compassionate
and caring physicians I know, and to
Dr. Barbara J. MacCollum, Gastrointestinal Specialist,
for willingly sharing her knowledge and expertise
regarding transplant surgery, and to the many
transplant teams and thousands of brave transplant
recipients across the country.
Chapter 1
A
lex Shephard opened his eyes, blinking at the hazy white glare. There was no pain, only a floaty feeling, almost surreal. Memory came drifting back. He was in a hospital bed, of course, in Intensive Care in a private cubicle surrounded by machines bleeping and clicking and the nurses’ station visible through sliding glass doors. He’d spent a lot of time in hospitals, mostly in Emergency, and had always hated them.
But not this time. Waking up this time meant he’d beaten the worst odds he’d ever been given.
Damned if he wasn’t alive. Alex closed his eyes and felt a rush of emotion clog his throat. Funny, he hadn’t known how much he wanted to live until he’d almost died. Funny also because he’d almost bought the farm half a dozen times with what some would call his reckless way of life, his insatiable thirst for new adventures, and he’d never once considered dying.
This time had been different because this time he’d not had even a modicum of control over his fate. The disease had hit fast and hard, escalating rapidly. Hepatitis C, the most serious strain. The doctor had been blunt. Without a new liver, he’d die in less than a month. Alex had felt helpless, angry, impotent. Then suddenly, a new liver had been located, surgery scheduled.
They’d said his chances were good, that his otherwise healthy body would most likely accept the newly transplanted organ. However, Dr. George Benson had warned that there were never guarantees with major surgery. If he made it through surgery, that would be the biggest hurdle. Six weeks afterward, his chances would improve dramatically, and if he survived five years, he’d likely live a long life.
Alex was determined to do just that. He still had a lot of living to do.
A nurse came into his private cubicle on silent shoes. Her dark hair was pulled back from a round face into a neat bun at her nape. “Good. You’re awake.”
Alex looked up, read Donna Campion on her name tag and swallowed around a dry throat. “Thirsty,” he managed, his voice sounding rusty to his ears.
“In a moment.” She turned his hand over and pressed two fingers to. his wrist, her eyes on her watch. Moments later, she made a notation on his chart, then popped a thermometer in his mouth.
Curious, he raised one arm, trying to see the needle taped to the inside of his elbow, testing his mobility.
“It’s best if you don’t try to move just yet,” Donna admonished him. “You’re in ICU, still heavily medicated.” She withdrew the thermometer, marked down his temperature. After opening a fresh straw, she poured water into a glass, bent the straw and held it to his lips. She allowed him two brief sips, then set the glass aside and straightened his bedding, adjusted his pillow.
She was used to running the show and stingy with the water, Alex thought, but he was too weak to protest. There was something more important on his mind. He hated to ask, but needed to hear the words spoken out loud. “The transplant took, then?”
Her face softened. “So far, so good.”
Alex let out a relieved sigh and closed his eyes.
 
The next time he opened them, his father was standing beside his hospital bed. Alex had no idea how long he’d been out this time, but the worry lines on Ron Shephard’s forehead had eased slightly. Lord knows he’d put a lot of creases on his father’s face through the years. However, this time, this illness, hadn’t exactly been due to carelessness.
He’d been competing in a sailboat regatta and his team had come in first as it usually did. A bunch of the guys were going out to celebrate and he’d borrowed someone’s razor, then cut himself in his haste. Who’d have dreamed you could get a fatal disease from something so ordinary, so seemingly safe?
Ron Shephard took hold of his son’s hand, squeezed gently. “You’re doing well, Alex,” he said, his voice thick. “Real well.”
“You talked with the doctor?” Ordinarily, he wasn’t a skeptic by nature, but this wasn’t exactly an ordinary happening.
“Absolutely.” Ron smiled reassuringly. He’d spoken with Dr. Benson earlier and found him to be “guardedly optimistic,” a phrase medical personnel used often enough to become a cliché. Benson had gone on to say that Alex wasn’t out of the woods yet, for his body could still reject the new liver, but that his son was doing as well as could be expected at this phase.
Reject the new liver? No, that couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen, Ron thought emphatically. He’d already lost his wife and buried one son. He couldn’t lose Alex, too.
“You’re going to be fine, just fine. Won’t be long and you’ll be out of here with a new lease on life, a second chance.”
Alex heard the words his father didn’t say: Don’t screw up this time. How many lives you think you have?
“Maddy can hardly wait to start fussing over you,” Ron went on. “She’s dying to fatten you up.”
Just what he needed, Alex thought. Recuperating at his father’s home in La Jolla with both Dad and the housekeeper who’d all but raised him hovering over him for weeks. But he’d promised he wouldn’t go home to his condo on the beach until he was well enough. Of course, he’d been so damn sick when they’d admitted him he’d have promised anyone anything. Still, it was probably for the best. He felt weak as a kitten.
“Want some water?” Ron asked. “Or your bed raised?” He felt uneasy in hospitals, a legacy from twenty years ago when his wife had battled for months against the cancer that had finally won. Alex had been only twelve.
“No, thanks.” Alex felt a vague heaviness in the area of his abdomen. He’d been told the incision could be as much as a foot and a half long. Shifting slightly, he tried to push back the sheet to check it out, but there were too many tubes running in and out of his arms, preventing easy movement, and the covers were too heavy.
“What is it? What do you want?” Ron asked.
“The incision. I want to see—”
“You don’t need to be worrying about your incision.” The nurse entering was younger than Donna but equally no-nonsense, firmly placing his hand outside the sheet and light blanket. “We’ve got you bound up good and tight. No way you can see that incision for a while.” She glanced over at the older man. “Your five minutes are up, Mr. Shephard. It’s time for my patient’s medication.”
“Sure thing.” Ron stroked his son’s bare arm, smiled down at him. “I’ll be back next hour, Alex. You rest now.”
“Later, Dad.” He closed his eyes as a wave of nausea had him swallowing hard.
“Not feeling too great, eh?” She picked up the syringe from the tray she’d brought in. “This’ll fix you right up.”
Alex focused on her name tag as she injected his medication. Andrea Owens, R.N. She had big brown eyes and curves her white uniform couldn’t hide. He watched her replace one of his drip bags, and before she was finished, he felt the warmth of the medication flood his system. “You’ve got great legs, Andrea,” he whispered, then drifted off into oblivion.
 
Whispering voices, muted but definitely close by, drew him out of a drugged sleep. But his eyelids felt too heavy to bother opening his eyes. Two nurses shuffled about his cubicle, gathering data from the machines behind his bed. He was getting used to the hourly routine. Alex drifted in that pleasant place halfway between being awake and sleeping, yet aware of their movements and snatches of their conversation.
“He’s definitely one of the lucky ones.” Donna Campion’s voice had the lilt of her English background. “His vitals are holding steady even sooner than Dr. Benson thought.”
“That’s good,” Andrea commented. “I’m glad. He’s too young to die.” She remembered him commenting on her legs yesterday and took a moment to study him. Blond hair bleached by the sun, a great tan and green eyes she’d noticed earlier when he’d been awake. A square jaw with a stubborn tilt, full lips she wouldn’t mind sampling. He had the kind of face no woman would easily forget. Her slender fingers settled on Alex’s wrist, her touch gentle as she shifted her gaze to her watch.
“I don’t expect he’ll die with that father of his ready, willing and able to help him out, no matter the cost.” Donna jotted his blood pressure reading on the patient’s chart.
“What do you mean?” Andrea whispered.
“The transplant, of course. I heard tell this one’s name wasn’t next on the list.” Coming around to the other side of the bed, she spoke in hushed tones. “The word is that his rich father bought him a liver.”
Andrea was clearly shocked. “You mean he bypassed the other patients on the list?”
“Only one that I know of, but still...” She tucked the sheet in more tightly, her round face disapproving.
“Maybe this patient was more critical. That’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it? The most critical gets the next transplant?”
“Age and probable recovery play a part, but I didn’t know that powerful, wealthy relatives could move a waiting recipient to the top of the list.” The experienced nurse shook her head. “Medicine isn’t what it used to be.”
Andrea wasn’t so quick to condemn. “Maybe we don’t have all the facts. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances.”
“I doubt it. I overheard Benson talking to the transplant team post-op. This guy’s daddy’s a prominent San Diego businessman and a big donor to this hospital. What chance does a poor ordinary slob have against all that?”
Reluctantly, Andrea set down her patient’s hand, her eyes on his handsome face. “I’ll bet he doesn’t know what his father did.”
The English nurse snapped her pen into place on the clipboard. “Right. And I’m Florence Nightingale. Let’s move along. The sooner we finish, the quicker I can take my break.”
Alex waited a long minute before opening his eyes. The room was still hazy, as was his mind. Had he heard correctly? Maybe he was dreaming, or foggy from all the drugs he’d been given. Surely they couldn’t be right. Dad wouldn’t...
Alex swallowed. Yes, it was exactly the sort of thing his father would do. The nurses’ words had the ring of truth. Because of two devastating tragedies in the past, Ron Shephard had been protective of Alex to the point of smothering. Alex had reacted predictably, by defying the gods full speed.
There’d been only two years separating him and his brother Patrick, but they’d been very different. Patrick had been steady as a rock, rarely taking chances, content with quiet pursuits while Alex viewed life as one big challenge, wanting to taste it fully. From skydiving to scuba diving in remote places, from mountain climbing to sailing across distant seas, he’d lived a wild and carefree life. Although Ron had objected, Alex pretended not to hear. His mother’s premature death at thirty-two had taught him that it was foolish to waste time, that you only go around once and you’d better enjoy the trip.
Alex’s philosophy had been reinforced when Patrick had drowned in a minor boating accident off San Diego Bay a week before his twenty-seventh birthday. To die because of a probable misstep on a sailboat, a mast swinging around, clunking him on the head and sending him overboard in the early-morning hours with no other boaters nearby to help out, had been so...so ignominious.
As it would have been to die because he’d borrowed a guy’s razor, Alex thought. When he’d heard the doctor’s prognosis, he’d realized he didn’t want to die, had struggled against the very thought. But he hadn’t realized the depth of his father’s concern until he’d heard the nurses’ discussion just now.
Despite his escapades, Alex knew he’d always conducted himself honestly and honorably. He’d knuckled down at his father’s company, Shephard Construction & Development Corporation, and made himself into a real asset, only indulging his pursuit of pleasure on weekends and vacations. He’d asked for no special treatment, working his way up, never taking a promotion he didn’t feel he deserved. To learn that his father had evened the odds for him was a shock.
What could he do now, after the fact? Confront his father? Yes, he would do that, but Alex thought he probably already knew the answer. Ron wouldn’t lie to him, nor would he apologize. He was a man very successful in business and used to calling the shots, of having his way, of removing obstacles to get what he wanted done.
Even if it meant riding roughshod over some poor unlucky person next in line for a liver transplant, someone neither of them had met.
Alex felt a shiver take him despite the warmth of the ICU cubicle. He’d have to think about this new wrinkle, learn to live with it. But first things first. He needed to get well, and for that he’d need all his energy right now.
Closing his eyes, he let the lingering medication take him back under.
 
“I’ll be damned if I’ll apologize for doing whatever it takes to keep my only son alive.” Ron Shephard poured himself iced tea from the pitcher on the glass-topped wrought-iron table and drank half of it down without pausing.
Alex lay back on the padded lounge chair on the covered patio of his father’s home in La Jolla. Just ahead were three hundred yards of sloping green lawn, then stone steps that led down to the beach and the sea beyond. Gulls dipped and rose over the whitecaps on this bright morning in mid-August, the noonday sun overhead warm and welcome. He’d been out of the hospital a week and finally decided to confront his father.

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