Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(72)

Oliver selected a bouquet of pink roses at a corner shop, then headed home, taking the stairs two at a time up to the fifth floor.

Pre-Naomi, Oliver had always stopped by his own place to catch his breath, change his clothes, switch gears from architect to patient’s son.

Post-Naomi, getting to his father’s place and seeing her there was the highlight of his day. Week.

The woman was becoming the highlight of his life.

Oliver pulled out his keys, then skidded to a halt when he saw the door of his father’s apartment was open.

His heart pounded as he slowly walked toward the door, pushing it open with a combination of urgency and dread.

Nothing.

“Naomi? Dad?”

No response. The only sound he heard was the History Channel on full volume.

Oliver broke out in a cold sweat. They could have gone for a walk, but there was no way Naomi would have left the door unlocked, much less open.

“Dad!” he called, more urgent now, going to the bedroom. Empty.

Absently, he reached for the remote to turn off the TV, the silence only ratcheting up his sense that something was very wrong.

A cell phone buzzed against a hard surface and he scanned the room until he saw Naomi’s phone on the kitchen counter, distinctive in its coral case.

Oliver went for it, reaching for it, when he came up short.

His heart stopped.

“Naomi,” he said on a rush.

She lay crumpled on the floor of the kitchen, a small pool of blood beneath her head.

“Naomi!” She didn’t move.

He crouched beside her, running a hand over her side, even as his first aid training reminded him not to move her.

Oliver softly touched her cheek, but she didn’t stir. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911 with a shaky hand.

“Yes, I need an ambulance at 517 Park Avenue. There’s a woman unconscious.”

He barely recognized his own voice as he answered the operator’s questions.

No, he didn’t know what happened.

Yes, there was blood.

Was she breathing?

Oliver swallowed. He hadn’t checked, because it hadn’t occurred to him—he wouldn’t let it be true.

With a shaky hand, he put his fingers to Naomi’s wrist. Found a pulse. To calm his heart, he put his hand beneath her nose, felt her breath.

“Yes. She’s breathing.”

“Okay, an ambulance’s on the way. Can you stay on the line, help me tell them where to go when they get there?”

He started to say, yes, of course, when he remembered. Walter. Walter was missing.

And suddenly Oliver was faced with the worst decision of his life: stay with the bloodied, unconscious body of the woman he loved, or try to find his lost, ill father.





TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 6

Naomi’s first words upon opening her eyes were ones she’d learned in the Bronx housing projects, and most definitely not fit for church.

But damn her head hurt.

She lifted her hand to the pain, only to freeze when she noted the tubes sticking out of the back of her hand.

“What the . . .”

She felt a wave of panicked nausea and closed her eyes again, both to try to ward off the pain and to remember.

She was in a hospital, clearly.

But why?

It came back. Slowly. Blearily. Walter. He’d been in one of his moods. She’d asked him to turn the TV down, he’s shouted . . . Well, let’s just say she wasn’t the only one with a foul mouth.

He’d demanded whisky, she’d said no, knowing alcohol would only inflame his current state, and he’d . . .

Hit her. Shoved her?

She couldn’t remember the details. She only knew the fear of seeing his much larger frame coming at her, eyes unfocused and furious, remembered hearing the crack of her own head against the cabinets . . .

Naomi felt a soft touch against her hand and turned her head slightly, opening her eyes to see a concerned-looking Deena.

Deena’s eyes went wide. “The nurse was right! You did call out!”

“Rather spicy, too,” came a male voice to her left. Naomi slowly rotated her neck, and looked over to a portly man in scrubs adjusting something with her IV.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

She tried to speak, but her mouth felt dry. She swallowed and tried again. “Like you better be increasing the morphine in that thing.”

He smiled. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

She considered, then shook her head. The nausea she’d felt when she’d first opened her eyes had passed, and she wasn’t seeing doubles of anyone. “Just the headache.”

“I’ll send the doctor right in to look you over. I gave your friend there some ice chips if you need any.”

Deena shook a paper cup, but Naomi shook her head no. She didn’t want ice. She wanted answers.

“What happened?”

“We were hoping you could tell us,” Deena said with a smile.

“Who’s we?” She scanned the room, but it was only Deena.

“Oh, you know, only everyone from the office. They’ve all been clamoring for a visit, but they’ll have to get in line.”

“In line behind . . . ?” Naomi asked, her heart desperate for one name, and one name alone.

“Me. Those fancy girls who were sleeping with your ex.”