CHAPTER ONE

      CAREY SPENCER HAD never felt more alone in her life than when she got off the bus in Hollywood.

      Joseph Matthews, on that night’s shift for the prestigious Hollywood Hills Clinic, had just delivered one of the industry’s favorite character actresses to the exclusive twenty-bed extended recovery hotel. It was tucked between Children’s Hospital and a smaller private hospital on Sunset Boulevard, and the common eye would never guess its function. Joe had agreed to make the Wednesday night run because James Rothsberg himself had asked. After all, the lady had won an award for Best Supporting Actress the year before last.

      As the lead paramedic for the ambulance line he owned, Joe had attended the not-to-be-named-aloud patient during the uneventful ride to the recovery hotel. She’d been heavily sedated, her IV was in place, her vitals, including oxygen saturation, were fine, but she’d had so much work done on her face, breasts and hands she looked like a mummy. When they’d arrived, you’d have thought he’d delivered the President to Walter Reed National Military Medical Center the way the abundant staff rushed to the ambulance and took over the transfer.

      Now, at nine p.m., back sitting in the front of the private ambulance, Joe switched on some music. Jazz, his favorite station. Yeah, he owned this bus—hell, he owned all six of them—so he could play whatever music he wanted. But that also kept him thinking about work a lot. It was the first of the month and he’d have to make copies of the June shift schedule for the EMTs and paramedics on his team before they showed up for work tomorrow morning.

      “I’m hungry,” Benny, his EMT, said from behind the wheel.

      Why was Joe not surprised? The kid had barely turned twenty and seemed to have hollow legs.

      Restless and out of sorts, a state that was nothing new these days, Joe nodded. “How about that Mexican grill?” They’d just made their last run on Friday night,