Chapter 2
"You're lying to me," he said savagely, though when he reached into his coat pocket for his phone, his touch remained agonizingly careful. "Stay still. Don't move an inch."
I heard him barking orders into the phone—not to 911, but to Dr. Emily Parker’s private direct line, which sat on the Hawthorne House emergency directory near the kitchen phone. Grant was nothing if not terrifyingly efficient.
"Dr. Parker? This is Grant Hale. I’m at Hawthorne House. Nora collapsed. She's conscious, but pale, tachycardic, and clammy. Get here now."
"No," I gasped, reaching up with trembling fingers to grab his lapel. "Grant, no. She doesn't need to—"
"Quiet," he murmured, his face coming down so close our foreheads nearly brushed. The scent of rain, cedarwood, and expensive wool filled my senses, dragging me ruthlessly back to that July midnight. His thumb wiped a cold bead of sweat from my brow. "Save your breath. She was already ten minutes down the valley on a house call. She'll be here before an ambulance could navigate the driveway."
Within eight agonizing minutes, the front door rattled open, followed by brisk footsteps echoing across the foyer.
Dr. Emily Parker, a woman of sixty with steel-gray curls and eyes sharp enough to cut diamond, hurried into the library, her medical bag swinging. Her gaze darted from me on the Persian rug up to Grant, who was hovering like an enraged sentinel over an injured fawn.
"Out of the way, Grant," Dr. Parker snapped without hesitation.
"She passed out while signing papers," Grant said, his jaw locked tight. "She's been losing weight. Look at her."
Dr. Parker knelt beside me, her cool, familiar hands immediately finding my pulse and slipping a blood pressure cuff around my arm. "Nora, honey, can you squeeze my fingers?"
I squeezed weakly. "I'm okay, Emily. Just... a dizzy spell."
"A dizzy spell after three weeks of severe morning sickness and intractable dehydration isn't just a dizzy spell," Dr. Parker retorted crisply, checking my pupils with a penlight.
Beside her, Grant went completely still.
"Morning sickness?" Grant repeated. The words fell out of his mouth like stones dropped into a deep well.
My heart slammed against my ribs. "Emily, please. Not now."
"Don't 'Emily, please' me, Nora. You promised me you'd drink electrolyte fluids and rest, and instead I find you collapsed on the floor while your estranged husband stands over legal contracts," she scowled, looking around at the open black leather folder on the mahogany desk. Then she looked back down at my oversized sweater. "Lift her onto the sofa, Grant. Gently."