Amanda Stevens - Confessions of the Heart

She tried to move away, but his grip tightened on her chin. “It would be wrong to blame you, though, wouldn’t it? The real monsters are the surgeons who patch together pathetic, soulless creatures like you from the dead and the dying.”

Anna said angrily, “Let go of me, Hays.”

His hand slipped to her chest, and with one finger, he uncannily traced the outline of her scar through her blouse. “Tell me something, Anna. What man is going to want to see that in bed?”

HAYS’S TAUNT followed Anna into her building, into the elevator, all the way up to the ninth floor. She’d experienced his animosity before, but nothing like this. He’d seemed so cold and cruel, and that strange glint in his eyes…

Anna shuddered, trying to put the confrontation out of her mind, but as she got off the elevator and walked down the hall to her apartment, she couldn’t get his words out of her mind. Tell me something, Anna. What man is going to want to see that in bed?

It wasn’t like she hadn’t thought of that herself. It wasn’t like she hadn’t stared at that scar in the mirror, trying to picture a man’s reaction the first time he saw it.

Luckily, she supposed, she had no one serious in her life these days. After her divorce, she’d avoided complicated entanglements and had pursued only the companionship of men who shared a similar philosophy to hers, namely, that she neither wanted nor expected an exclusive commitment, and her career would always come first.

She’d convinced herself it was an outlook that would serve her well, but looking back after her surgery, when she’d had plenty of time to dissect her life, Anna had come to realize that the like-minded men whose company she’d sought were as shallow as she, their personal lives as empty and vapid as hers. Looking at them was like looking in a mirror, and the reflection was not pretty.

Anna could well imagine their reactions on seeing her scar. Naturally, they’d try to put a good face on it, but inside they’d recoil in horror and wouldn’t be able to get away fast enough. She was flawed now and—even worse—high-maintenance. A double whammy for the commitment-challenged.

And the one of substance, that nameless, faceless man whom Anna had now started to fantasize about? The man who could look at her, scar and all, and still want her? Was he out there somewhere?

Unaccountably, her thoughts went back to the man in the elevator, and as Anna inserted her key into the lock and opened the door, she wondered why he’d had such a strong impact on her. He was a total stranger. She’d probably never see him again. No reason for her to feel this strange fascination for him.

Except, of course, for the obvious reason. They were both flawed.

Had women shunned him because of his appearance?

Somehow Anna couldn’t imagine that.

Closing the door behind her, she took off her soggy raincoat and tossed it into the powder room just off the foyer, an action that once would have been unthinkable to her.

“Laurel, I’m home!” She brushed fingers through her damp hair as she walked into the living room.

When there was no response, Anna decided she must have beat her stepmother home. Then she heard voices coming from the den, and she hurried down the hallway toward the sound.

“Laurel!”

As Anna entered the room, the first thing she saw was her stepmother’s pale face, and she knew immediately something had happened. Something terrible.

Laurel stood in front of the television, so engrossed in whatever was on that she hadn’t bothered to sit. She didn’t appear to hear Anna’s approach, either, but then she glanced up. “Anna! Oh, I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve been so worried—”

She actually swayed on her feet, and Anna rushed to her side, clutching her arm. “Laurel, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I still can’t believe it,” she murmured, one hand to her throat.

“What?” Anna’s gaze was drawn to the television screen then and to the news alert that had interrupted an afternoon talk show Laurel loved. A female reporter stood on the street in front of a large home in an older, upscale neighborhood.

But Anna caught only a word or two of the woman’s report because her stepmother started to babble. “He must have left the hospital right after we did. The police think he was lured home and the killer was waiting for him—”

Anna gripped Laurel’s shoulders. “What are you talking about? Waiting for whom?”

All Laurel could manage was to point weakly at the TV where the reporter’s calm, clear tone was a surreal contradiction to her agitation.

Anna turned once again to stare at the screen. The reporter was in the middle of her recap. “…on the scene live in the Museum District where a prominent Houston heart surgeon was found brutally murdered in his home a short while ago. This has been a Channel Eleven exclusive report. Stay tuned for all the late-breaking developments….”

Anna spun to face Laurel. “No,” she whispered.

Laurel nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “It was Michael, Anna. He’s dead.”

And suddenly all Anna could think about was what her ex-husband had said to her not ten minutes earlier. It would be wrong to blame you, though, wouldn’t it? The real monsters are the surgeons who patch together pathetic, soulless creatures like you from the dead and the dying.

HUDDLED INSIDE the apartment, Anna and Laurel remained glued to the TV that evening, watching several local news broadcasts for the latest developments in Michael’s murder. But the details remained sketchy. He’d been shot to death in the breezeway between his garage and house. None of the neighbors had heard gunfire, nor had anyone seen anything suspicious. His body had been discovered when a woman walking her dog had gone to investigate her pet’s frantic barking and strange behavior. No suspects were in custody, and though the police spokesperson didn’t come right out and say so, it appeared there were no concrete leads.

After Anna went to bed that night, she lay awake for a long time thinking about everything Michael had done to save her life. And now he was dead. Who could have done such a thing?

Deep down, she didn’t really believe Hays had anything to do with the murder, but his words continued to haunt her. When she finally fell into an exhausted sleep, however, she didn’t dream about Michael or her ex-husband. She dreamed about the stranger with the scar.

He was lying naked in bed, watching her undress. His eyes were dark and smoldering, and as she slowly approached him, he reached up, snaking a hand around the back of her neck to draw her down for a long, deep, soul-shattering kiss that robbed her of breath and sanity.

For the longest time, they kissed. His tongue was deep inside her mouth, tangling with hers, mating with hers, making her yearn for an even deeper intimacy.

When they finally broke apart, she traced the scar on his face with her fingertip, and he let her for a moment. Then he grabbed her hand, pulling her on top of him, and she came willingly. Eagerly. She moved over him, and their bodies joined so frantically, she cried out. The stranger’s hands slid downward, grazing her breasts, tracing her waist, grasping her hips as he set a powerful rhythm. Anna’s head fell back. She could feel herself losing control. In another moment…

She woke up, gasping for breath. Her skin was on fire. For a moment, she thought it was the aftermath of the dream, but then she realized her elevated temperature and heart palpitations signified something far more dangerous.

Her body was rejecting her new heart….

Anna climbed out of her car in San Miguel and stood in the baking heat. July in South Texas could be brutal and she was only a week out of the hospital. She’d rushed this trip. She knew that. She should have given herself another few days to build up her strength, but it was too late to turn back now. Somehow she knew if she got back in her car and drove away she might never work up enough courage to come here again. And if she left now, her self-doubts might never be laid to rest.