Hired by Her Husband. Anne McAllister
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finally, zipping the duffel shut and raising her gaze to meet Natalie’s. “If there was any way not to do this, believe me, I wouldn’t. There’s not. According to the papers in George’s personnel file at Columbia, I’m his next of kin. He’s unconscious. They may have to do surgery. They don’t know the extent of his injuries. They’re in ‘wait and see’ mode. But if things go wrong—” She stopped, unable to bring herself to voice possibilities the doctor had outlined for her.
“Sophy,” Natalie’s voice was one of gentle warning.
Sophy swallowed, straightened and squared her shoulders. “I have to do this,” she said firmly. “When I was alone—before Lily was born—he was there.” It was true and she made herself face that fact as much as she told it to her cousin. He had married her to give Lily a father, to give her child the Savas name. “I owe him. I’m paying my debt.”
Natalie looked at her doubtfully, but then nodded. “I guess so,” she said slowly. Then her eyes flashed impatiently. “But what kind of grown man gets run over by a truck?”
A physicist too busy thinking about atom smashing to watch where he was going, Sophy thought privately. But she didn’t say that. She just told the truth.
“I don’t know. I just know I appreciate your dropping everything and coming over to stay with Lily. I’ll call you in the morning. We can arrange a time and do a video call, too.” She patted her briefcase where she’d already packed her laptop. “That way Lily can see me and it won’t be so abrupt. I hate leaving her without saying goodbye.”
She had never left Lily in four years—not for more than a few hours. Now she knew that if she woke Lily she’d end up taking her along. And that was a can of worms she didn’t intend to open.
“She’ll be fine,” Natalie assured her. “Just go. Do what needs to be done. And take care of yourself,” she advised.
“Yes. Of course. It will be fine,” Sophy assured her, picking up the briefcase as Christo hefted the duffel and headed out to the car.
Sophy allowed herself a quick side trip into Lily’s room. She stood there a moment just looking at her sleeping daughter, her dark hair tousled, her lips slightly parted. She looked like George.
No. She looked like a Savas, Sophy corrected herself. Which Lily was. George had nothing to do with it. But even as she told herself that, her gaze was drawn to the photo on the bedside table. It was a picture of baby Lily in George’s arms.
Lily might not remember him, but she certainly knew who he was. She’d demanded to know about him ever since she discovered such people as fathers existed.
Where was her father? she’d asked. “My daddy,” she said. “Who is my daddy?” Why wasn’t he here? When was he coming back?
So many questions.
For which her mother had had such inadequate answers, Sophy thought miserably now.
But how could she explain to a child what had happened? It was hard enough to explain it to herself.
She’d done her best. She’d assured her daughter of George’s love. She knew that much was true. And she’d even promised that some day Lily would meet him.
“When?” her daughter had demanded.
“Later.” Sophy kept the promise deliberately vague. “When you’re older.”
Not now. And yet, at the same time Sophy thought the words again, another thought popped into her head: What if he died?
Impossible! George had always seemed tough, impervious, imminently indestructible.
But what did she really know about the man who had so briefly been her husband? She only thought she’d known…
And what man, even a strong tough one, could fend off a truck?
“Sophy?” Natalie’s voice whispered from the door. “Christo’s waiting in the car.”
“Coming.” Quickly Sophy bent and gave her daughter a light kiss, brushed her hand over Lily’s silky hair, then sucked in a deep, desperate breath and hurried out of the room.
Natalie was waiting, watching worriedly. Sophy mustered a smile. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Of course you will.” Natalie gave her a quick smile in return, then wrapped Sophy in a fierce tight hug intended, Sophy knew, to supply a boatload of encouragement and support. “You don’t still love him, do you?” Natalie asked.
Sophy pulled back and shook her head. “No,” she vowed. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t! “Absolutely not.”
They weren’t giving him any painkillers.
Which would be fine, George thought, though the pounding in his head was ferocious and moving his leg and elbow made him wince, if they would just let him sleep.
But they weren’t doing that, either. Every time he fell blessedly asleep they loomed over him, poking and prodding, talking in loud kindergarten-teacher voices, shining lights in his eyes, asking him his name, how old he was, who was the president.
How idiotic was that? He could barely remember his age or who the president was when he hadn’t just got run over by a truck.
If they’d ask him how to determine the speed of light or what the properties of black holes were, he could have answered in the blink of an eye. He could talk about that for hours—or he could have provided he was able to keep his eyes open long enough.
But no one asked him that.
They went away for a while, but then came back with more needles. They did scans, tutted and muttered, asked more of their endless questions, always looking at him expectantly, then furrowed their brows, worried, when he couldn’t remember if he was thirty-four or thirty-five.
Who the hell cared?
Apparently they did.
“What month is it?” he demanded. His birthday was in November.
They looked askance when he asked them questions.
“He doesn’t know what month it is,” one murmured and made quick urgent notes on her laptop.
“Doesn’t matter,” George muttered irritably. “Is Jeremy all right?”
That was what mattered right now. That was what he saw whenever his eyes were closed—his little four-year-old dark-haired neighbor darting into the street to chase after his ball. That and—out of the corner of his eye—the truck barreling down on him.
The memory still made his breath catch. “How’s Jeremy?’ George demanded again.
“He’s fine. Barely a scratch,” the doctor said, shining a light in George’s eyes. “Already gone home. Much better off than you. Hold still and open your eyes, George, damn it.”
Ordinarily, George figured, Sam Harlowe probably had more patience with his patients. But he and Sam went back to grade school. Now Sam gripped George’s chin in firm fingers and shone his light again in George’s eyes again. It sent his head pounding through the roof and made him grit his teeth.
“As long as Jeremy’s okay,” he said through them. As soon as Sam let go of his jaw, George lay back against the pillows and deliberately shut his eyes.
“Fine. Be an ass,” Sam said gruffly. “But you’re going to stay right here and you’re going to rest. Check on him regularly,” Sam commanded the nurse. “Keep me posted on any change. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
George’s eyes flicked open again. “I thought you said he was all right.”
“He is. The jury’s still out on you,” Sam told him gruffly. “I’ll be back.”
As that sounded more like a threat than a promise, George wanted to say he wouldn’t