The Biological Bond. Jamie Denton
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want me to make this easy for you?” Slowly, as if he didn’t want her to notice, he removed his arm from her grasp.
“You don’t have to make anything easy for anyone. We can’t help where we’ve come from or what we’ve had to do to get where we are. Why don’t we just accept that and go on from here, okay?”
Uh-oh. Frown’s back.
“Is that what you did, Ms. Martinson? What you had to do to get where you are today?”
She glared at him. There was nothing else for her to do. She couldn’t very well get up and walk out of an airplane taxiing down the runway. But she didn’t want to keep suffering his sarcasm for the next three and a half hours, not to mention another ninety minutes on a rock-and-tumble commuter flight.
“Look, Winslow,” she said, giving him a narrow-eyed glare as the plane lifted off. “My past is my past. Tough decisions were made that are pretty much none of your damn business. So why don’t you just pipe down and be civil. Okay?”
His expressed immediately softened, and his dark eyes filled with contrition. “Are you always this sassy?” he asked.
“Only with people who have a rotten attitude.”
“Touché,” he said, the beginning of a grin tugging his lips ever so slightly.
“I bet your wife doesn’t let you get away with that attitude.”
“I’m not married.”
“Let me guess. Your winning smile drove her away, right?” Okay, so he was right. She was sassy. But she knew all about pecking order, and she was not about to let Sam Winslow intimidate her into playing Beta to his Alpha. He might be gaining the home field advantage, but he’d learn soon enough his opponent was anything but a pushover.
This was not how Sam had planned his association with his daughter’s birth mother. In fact, since he’d walked into Rebecca’s office yesterday, not much had gone as planned…his physical reaction to her topping the list.
He’d seen the photograph of her and knew she was a beautiful woman, but he wasn’t prepared for the sleek, cat-like grace she possessed when she moved, or the way her bright-green eyes pooled when he mentioned Mel. Nor had he been prepared for the physical response that surged through his body when she’d gently laid her hand over his arm. That had been a curve ball he hadn’t seen coming.
An hour later Sam hadn’t come to terms with the way his body had reacted to Rebecca. When the flight attendant offered them a drink, Rebecca ordered a diet cola. He wanted a double bourbon—straight, but settled for coffee instead.
He thanked the attendant and gave Rebecca his full attention. She sighed, a wistful little sound that stirred his blood.
“I don’t want Mel to know you’re the one to donate the bone marrow,” he blurted. He’d been trying to find a tactful way to approach the subject. Oh well, he thought. At least it was out in the open.
She looked at him and lifted one of those dark brows in silent question.
“Mel’s not a stupid kid,” he said quietly. “A sibling or a biological parent are the most likely matches in bone marrow transplantation and she’s aware of that fact. She’s heard the rundown on the entire medical process and can easily figure it out for herself who you really are.”
Setting her diet cola on the fold-down tray, she traced squiggles in the condensation of the plastic cup with a perfectly manicured nail. “I thought we already had this discussion.”
True, he thought, but he wanted to make certain Mel was protected. “I don’t lie to my kid, but in this case it’s necessary. And, Ms. Martinson?” Sam waited until she looked at him. “Once the month is over, that’s it. You’ll never be allowed to see my daughter again.”
A PINCUSHION had fewer holes than Rebecca did in her arm. As soon as she’d checked into the hospital, they’d sent in the legalized vampires to begin the methodical torture of withdrawing vial upon vial of blood. The nurse had threatened an IV would be started before she went to sleep. Rebecca didn’t think she had a vein left for the insertion.
She continued to surf the fourteen available channels and finally landed on a local news program. While a petite blonde talked about an overturned grain truck on one of the highways, Rebecca thought about her daughter, two floors above her.
“Damn,” she muttered. She never should have promised Sam she’d wait to meet Melanie until after the girl was released from the hospital. But even her promise failed to squelch the burning desire to sneak upstairs and take a look at her.
The newscaster promised a weather report after a commercial break. Melanie was probably sleeping. There certainly was nothing on television to hold one’s interest, let alone that of a teenaged girl. Maybe she could just take a walk, stretch her legs and stroll past the room. If Melanie was awake, she’d keep going, but…
Unable to resist any longer, she reached for her cotton robe and pulled it around her. She jammed her feet into the slippers the nurse had parked neatly at the bedside. Firmly ignoring the possible repercussions, she left the private hospital room, strolled past the nurses’ station and headed for the elevator.
After a moment the doors whooshed open, and she stepped inside, pushed the button for the fifth floor and waited. Her insides churned, and her heart pounded in a heavy rhythm. Thank goodness she was in a hospital—a crash cart would easily be at hand if she arrested.
The doors slid open, and she stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor. Now what? she wondered. She was here, her daughter was somewhere on the floor, but where? What if Sam left instructions with the nursing staff that Melanie was to have no visitors? No Rebecca Martinson visitors?
Hesitantly she headed down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. An older man, apparently a doctor, was jotting notes in a chart and giving orders to a nurse. She couldn’t just walk the halls and pray she’d be guided by some magical force to her child.
Wiping her hands on the thin material of her robe, she continued toward the nurses’ station.
“What about the Winslow girl?” the nurse asked.
Rebecca froze.
“She’s resting comfortably,” the doctor answered, handing the chart to the nurse. “She’ll be transplanted at 7:00 a.m. by Dr. Walsh.”
Rebecca slowed her steps, straining to hear anything, a sliver of hope that they believed the transplant would be a success.
“I hope it works.” The nurse placed the chart on the Formica counter. “She’s such a—”
A high-pitched beep sounded. The nurse looked over the counter and pushed a button. “Sandy Reed again.”
The doctor chuckled, then strode away while the nurse took off in the opposite direction.
The chart lay on the stark counter.
Rebecca bit her lip and hurried forward. The nurses’ station was deserted. She looked over her shoulder, up and down the corridor, then scanned the chart. The name typed on the bottom of the form entitled Doctor’s Orders was Mary Fitzmyer.
With another surreptitious glance around the vicinity, she made certain all was clear. A few televisions droned in the background along with the bleeps and chirps from various monitors and medical equipment. Standing on tiptoe, she peered over the counter. Medical charts lined the desk area. Valuable minutes would be wasted if she had to search each chart to see which room was Melanie’s.
Another look around the area and she darted around the counter. M. Winslow. The name and room number was posted to a board with little red lights that flashed when someone required the nursing staff’s attention.
Room 529.
She didn’t believe it possible, but her heartbeat thudded painfully in her chest. This was it.
Wiping her damp palms on her robe