The Last Mrs. Parrish(61)

“I like having you here.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I simply smiled. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

His face darkened, and he pulled his hand back. “No, I don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” I took a deep breath. “I’m a little nervous.”

He kissed me then, his tongue insistent, his mouth pressed to mine. Then he pulled away and caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to be nervous with me. I’ll take good care of you.”

A mixture of feelings washed over me. I untangled myself from his arms and gave him a sincere smile. “I need to go. I’ll be late.”

He pulled me back to him. “You’re the boss, remember? You don’t answer to anyone but the board.” He was on top of me then, his eyes holding mine again in that hypnotizing stare. “And the board doesn’t mind if you’re late. Please stay. I just want to hold you a little longer.”

Everything had begun with such promise. And then, like a windshield chipped by a tiny pebble, the chip turned into deep cracks that spread until there was nothing left to repair.





Thirty-Seven




Dating as a means to getting to know someone is highly overrated. When your hormones are raging and the attraction is magnetic, your brain takes a vacation. He was everything I never knew I needed.

At work, I was back in my comfort zone, though I kept flashing back to our night together with a smile. Hours later, a commotion outside my small office made me look up. A young man was pushing a cart with vase after vase of red roses. Fiona, my secretary, was behind him, her face flushed and hands waving.

“Someone sent you flowers. Lots of flowers.”

I stood up and signed for them. I counted a dozen vases. I put one bunch on my desk and looked around, wondering what to do with the rest. We placed them along the floor of my small office, since we had nowhere else to set them.

Fiona shut the door when the deliveryman left and plopped down in the chair across from me. “Okay, spill.”

I hadn’t wanted to discuss Jackson with anyone yet. I didn’t even know what we were. I reached over and pulled out the card.

Your skin is softer than these petals. Missing you already.

J



They were everywhere. It was too much. The cloying smell of the flowers overwhelmed me and made my stomach roil.

Fiona was staring at me with an exasperated expression. “Well?”

“Jackson Parrish.”

“I knew it!” She gave me a triumphant look. “The way he was looking at you when he stopped by to see the offices the other day, I knew it was just a matter of time.” She leaned forward, her chin in her hands. “Is it serious?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I like him—but I don’t know.” I gestured toward the flowers. “He comes on awfully strong.”

“Yeah, what a jerk, sending you all these beautiful roses.” She got up and opened door.

“Fiona?”

“Yes?”

“Take a couple for your desk. I don’t know what to do with the rest.”

She shook her head. “Sure thing, Boss. But I gotta tell you, he’s not going to be so easy to cast off.”

I needed to get back to work. I’d figure out Jackson later. I was about to make a phone call when Fiona opened the door again. Her face was ashen.

“It’s your mother.”

I grabbed the phone and held it to my ear. “Mom?”

“Daphne, you need to come home. Your father’s had a heart attack.”

“How bad is it?” I choked out.

“Just come. As soon as you can.”





Thirty-Eight




The next phone call I made was to Jackson. As soon as I managed to get the words out, he took over.

“Daphne, it’s going to be okay. Deep breaths. Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

“But I have to get to the airport. I need to find a flight. I—”

“I’ll take you. Don’t worry.”

I’d forgotten he owned a plane. “Can you do that?”

“Listen to me. Stay there. I’m leaving now to get you. We’ll go by your place and get some clothes and be in the air in about an hour. Just breathe.”

The rest was a blur. I did what he told me, threw things in a suitcase, followed directions until I was seated on his plane, grasping his hand tightly while I looked out the window and prayed. My father was only fifty-nine—surely he couldn’t die.

When we landed in New Hampshire at a private airport, Marvin, a waiter at the inn, was waiting for us. I guess I made the introductions, or maybe Jackson just took over. I don’t remember. All I remember is the feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might never get to talk to my father again.

As soon as we arrived at the hospital, Jackson took charge. He found out who Dad’s doctor was, assessed the facility, and immediately had him moved to St. Gregory’s, the large hospital an hour from our small town. There is no doubt in my mind that he would have died had Jackson not seen the ineptitude of his treating doctor at County General and the lack of sophisticated equipment. Jackson arranged for a top cardio doctor from New York to meet us at the hospital. The doctor arrived shortly after we did, and upon examining my dad, declared that he hadn’t had a heart attack after all, but an aortic dissection. He explained that the lining of his heart had torn, and if he didn’t operate immediately, my father would die. Apparently his high blood pressure had been the cause. He warned us that the delay in the diagnosis had diminished his chance of survival to fifty percent.