Jo Leigh - Ms. Taken

Only she wouldn’t love him the way Jane did. She couldn’t. If she had, she never would have left him. Not for anything. Only a fool would leave Charles Warren.

Holly wouldn’t understand his need for laughter. She wouldn’t see that his was a cautious soul that needed lots of loving care. Poor Charles didn’t want anyone to see his vulnerability, and Holly, who might be very attractive and speak umpteen languages, was too selfish to look beyond the facade. The only one, Jane thought, who had an inkling about the real Charles was David Levinson. He came to the office a couple of times a month, and he never failed to ask her how she was, and about her latest project. He was so nice. Such a sweetie pie. He never rushed his conversations, even if Charles tried to hurry him up.

She could see that David was worried about Charles, just as she was. And that David wasn’t having any luck getting Charles to see he had to slow down. But then, David was just a friend. Not a girlfriend. Not a wife.

The train started with a jerk and before she had a chance to fix her lipstick, she arrived at Pearl Street. Jane hustled out with about a million other people who were just as late as she was. No one spoke to each other, no one looked at each other. As far as she could see in this mass of humanity, there wasn’t one smile.

It was too near Christmas for such dour moods. She wished she was brave enough to say something. Just to holler, “Lighten up!” But then someone shoved her in the back, and she nearly stumbled. She sighed. Sometimes it was difficult to keep a positive attitude.

On the street, she breathed in a healthy dose of fresh air. But there was no time to appreciate the morning smells of doughnuts and coffee coming from the cart next to her. She had to run if she was going to make it to the office on time.

She dashed across the street with all the other pedestrians, dodging taxis and limos. The chorus of horns was anything but festive. She didn’t understand the honking. It never changed anything. Maybe all those drivers were just trying to be heard. A primal cry, desperate in its futility.

One of those desperate souls nearly ran her over, and she teetered on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment. No one noticed.

She walked as quickly as she dared, nearing the huge office building in the heart of Wall Street. Somewhere among all the noise and hubbub she heard the jingle of a bell. A street-corner Santa. That made things a little easier to take.

One more street crossed, and then she was under the scaffolding, pushing through the throng of office workers huddled in their heavy coats, their gloved hands thrust in pockets or gripping briefcases.

Again she was bumped. A man on a cell phone. Just as she was about to give him a piece of her mind, a scream, “Watch out!” made her look up.

Something was falling—

It hit her on the head. White light filled her vision and agony turned her legs to mush. Then the white faded to black, and that was all.

HER HEAD HURT. When she opened her eyes, the light hurt, too. “Ouch.”

“Good, you’re awake.”

“Huh?” She blinked, trying to figure out who was talking to her. A man in a coat. A white coat.

“You’re in an emergency room. I’m Dr. Larson. You were hit on the head.”

“I was?” She touched her forehead gingerly, but all she felt was a bandage.

“It’s amazing you’re alive. That was quite a blow.”

“What was?”

“This,” he said, holding up a plaster statuette. After a long moment she realized it was a Cupid. Complete with bow and arrow. Except the right wing was broken and his feet were missing.

“I was hit in the head by Cupid?”

“By about two pounds of plaster.”

“Am I all right?”

“I don’t know yet. Let’s find out, shall we?”

She nodded. Big mistake. Her head throbbed with an ungodly pain, the worst she’d ever felt. For a moment, the blackness threatened. She clung to something cold as steel as she struggled to focus her vision.

The doctor’s concerned look didn’t help matters any. Maybe she was really hurt. Seriously hurt. “It’s all right,” she said finally, knowing that it wasn’t. “I’m okay.”

“Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?” He helped her sit, and it was then she realized she was on a gurney and her hand had been gripping the rail. Her skirt was torn and damp, her sweater dirty. The lump of black wool on the chair by the curtain must be her coat.

“Look at my finger.”

She did, following the digit from right to left and back again. Then the doctor shone a light in her eyes, which made the throbbing worse.

When she could see again, she saw the doctor was young. Thirty? Maybe. Probably a resident. Or an intern. He was pretty good-looking, too. Tres ER.

His little rubber thingy hit her knee, and from the sound of the doctor’s “humph” she gathered her reactions were normal. As he wrote on his clipboard, she noticed a little bit of shaving cream on his jaw just below his ear.

Her hand went to that spot on her own face, hoping he’d catch on. She didn’t want to tell him. He seemed very nice, but also shy, and she had the feeling he would be embarrassed.

“All right, then. Let’s move on. What’s your name?”

Her gaze jerked up, making her wince. Her name. Her name. Why on earth couldn’t she think of it? “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“Uh…”

“Yes?”

“Well. Um, I can’t seem to recall.”

“You can’t seem to recall what?”

She smiled. Laughed, although it really wasn’t funny. “My name.”

His whole body language changed from relaxed to red alert. “I see,” he said, failing to calm her with his words.

“You see what?” Her stomach clenched and it suddenly was hard to breathe. She recognized the signs of a panic attack, and she hadn’t had one in years. Why did she know that, and not her name?

“What’s your mother’s name?”

Nothing came. Her mind was a blank.

“Brothers, sisters? Your father?”

She closed her eyes, focusing every ounce of her energy on not screaming.

“You didn’t come in with a purse. And there was nothing in your pockets.”

His voice faded a bit, and when she opened her eyes again he was standing by her coat.

“This was in your hand.” He held up a glossy magazine. Attitudes.

And then it hit her. She nearly swooned with relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“Yes?”

“I remember. Of course. Wow, that was scary.”

“What is it?”

“My name?”

He nodded.

“It’s Holly. Holly Baskin.”

LARRY PODESKY, Bob Riverside’s attorney, wetted the tip of his finger slowly, then used that finger to turn to the next page of the legal brief. He went on reading line by painful line in a voice better suited to mortuary work than high finance. The mildly disturbing tableau wasn’t enough, however, to focus Charles.

The damn girl hadn’t even called. That’s what got him. The simple courtesy of a phone call this morning and everything would have been fine. He’d have had time to get a suitable temp, someone who knew how to make palatable coffee, who wouldn’t spill water all over Riverside’s pants. Things would have gone according to plan.

“…the party of the first part, will make appropriate restitution to landowners…”

Charles tried to focus on the contract, but his attention was waylaid by four drops of water on the conference table. Remnants of the mishap of an hour ago, they were perfect bubbles, contained within themselves, shimmering when Podesky jostled the table. For God’s sake, millions of dollars were at stake, and he was busy thinking about beads of water. He dismissed them, turned his attention to the pages before him, but every few words his gaze would dart over to the drops. It was all he could do not to leap out of his chair and blot the water before it could torment him further.